Future; Nostalgic

#FridayFlash...well, kinda...

2011-07-01T09:21:00.000+01:00

Just a quick note to let you all know that our skiing correspondent, aka my darling daughter (DD), has decided to have a bash at writing a FridayFlash, which can be found here if you wouldn't mind stopping by her blog for a quick read.

DD is dyslexic and this is the very first thing she has ever written (all by herself with no help from yours truly, despite me having offered), so she'd appreciate a little feedback. Thanks.

#FridayFlash: Driftwood

2011-05-26T20:00:00.000+01:00

This is a tale of the Dark Ages set somewhere along the north Northumberland coast. Driftwood concerns two children, Islaeg and his younger sister Aeggith, who make a grim discovery after their mother sends them down to the beach to gather driftwood the morning after a fierce storm.

Beadnell Bay from The Snook

Photo © Lisa Jarvis and licensed for reuse under this Creative Commons Licence

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‘Is he dead?’

The little girl shivered in the icy on-shore wind, clutched her bundle of driftwood tighter to her chest.

‘I don’t know Aeggith,’ Islaeg said, poking the body with the end of his staff, trying to show more bravado than he felt, ‘He looks dead.’

‘You’d better fetch Ma.’

Aeggith watched the gangly youth sprint out of sight among the dunes.

Overhead, wispy white clouds tacked across a washed out sky, gulls wheeling and diving in the blustery air, their plaintive mewling melting in and out of the song of waves crashing on the shore.

The wind was playful today, tugging at Aeggith’s clothes, slicing through her threadbare smock like a knife to raise goose bumps on her arms. It whipped the hair across her face, stirred up small clouds of coarse grains to sting and bite at her legs. Last night it had been a howling dark beast, madly driving a torrent of rain and roaring spume-topped breakers relentlessly onto the shoreline. It was the reason their mother had sent Aeggith and her brother down to the beach that morning - driftwood for the fire was always plentiful after such a storm.

Aeggith looked down at the man’s body lying half in, half out of the lapping waves. He had a look of her uncle about him, her uncle the Huscarl, with his clothes of fine wool and linen, boots of hard, tooled leather, gold and silver at his neck and arms. The sword at his hip was like her uncle’s too, plain, unornamented, a workman’s sword - a blood-drinker, a soul-taker.

She knelt by him then, her eyes drawn to the serpent-inscribed ring of silver, one of several about his arm. A single arm-ring like that would keep her whole family for a year or more, and anyway, she thought, he had others, not that he was likely to have need of them now. Slowly, tentatively, she reached out a trembling hand, grasped the cold metal with fingers still gritted from beachcombing, and tugged.

Aeggith screamed as he grabbed her wrist, the rings on his fingers biting savagely into her flesh. She fell backwards, kicking and scratching desperately at him, her feet scrabbling against the wet sand, but he held her fast.

His eyes flashed open, fixing her with a piercing emerald gaze, spasms of coughing wracking his chest.

‘Lëorith? Have you found Lëorith?’

When she shook her head he slumped back onto the sand, shuddered, then lay still. Slipping her hand from his, Aeggith sucked her wrist where his ring had cut her skin, salt sea tang mingling with the metallic taste of her blood.

She was standing a little way off still watching him, the driftwood bundle clutched to her chest, when Islaeg returned with their mother and Father Nistian. None of them noticed the glint of silver deep within Aeggith’s armful of kindling, nor any sign of the blood-spattered rock hastily hidden in the sand at her feet.

‘Is he dead?’ she said.

________________________________

One from the vaults for you this week, I hope you enjoyed it. Driftwood was originally published as an entry in Laurita Miller's Seaside Fiction contest over at Calling Shotgun last year, where it won an Honourable Mention.

Driftwood is one of the stories I mentioned in my recent interview by EP Marcellin, which, if you missed it, can be found here.

Author Interview over at Pen Dragon

2011-05-21T15:06:00.004+01:00

The lovely Elizabeth Marcellin is interviewing me today over at her place, Pen Dragon. I'd love it if you could spare me a few minutes to stop by and see what I have to say for myself here.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Book Launches: 100 Stories for Queensland and Nothing But Flowers

2011-05-17T09:28:00.010+01:00

Today's the day folks! Two paperback book launches with a story of mine in each are happening right now, and both in support of very worthy charitable causes. If that in itself is not enough to convince you to rush off and buy both books right this instant, it's OK, I'll wait...

*insert Countdown theme music here*

...you're back? Great!

Now, as I was saying, please allow me to tell you a little more about each book in turn.

First, 100 Stories for Queensland...

As you may remember from the media coverage at the time and from my post here, back in January (2011) the Australian state of Queensland was devastated by flooding. Very shortly thereafter, Jodi Cleghorn of eMergent Publishing and herself a resident of Queensland, and Trevor Belshaw, a fellow UK writer proposed an anthology project in support of those affected by the floods and 100 Stories for Queensland was born. An international team of authors, editors, beta readers (too many wonderful people to name individually here) gave freely of their time and writing to bring the project to fruition, you can find out more about them here.

So, just what is 100 Stories for Queensland? Well, dear reader, I'll tell you.

100 Stories for Queensland is a charity anthology of flash fiction, that is, short stories of under 1000 words, in aid of the survivors of the worst flooding in history in the Australian state of Queensland. 100 Stories DOES NOT contain real life accounts of the floods. Everything between the covers is fiction.

There is something for everyone, with stories in a number of genres, including literary fiction, science fiction, magical realism, romance, fantasy, humour, paranormal and slice of life. Includes my story, Kittens!

The stories were penned by an international contingent of writers. A quarter of the stories came from Australia, a third from the UK and the rest from across the globe including the USA, Spain, France, Austria, Malaysia, Israel, Greece and Canada.

Money from the sale of the book goes to The Queensland Premier’s Flood Relief Fund. 100% of the sale price of the eBook is donated and, 100% of the wholesale price (less printing costs) of the paperback is donated.

100 Stories for Queensland is available in ebook format here, and in paperback format from Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com, and should be available to order from your favourite local bookshop in about a week or so, but please don't wait, buy it today and help contribute to the 100 Stories for Queensland Amazon Chart Rus h of today, 17th May, 2011.

You can also download the foreward and first eleven stories as a free sample in PDF and ePub formats.

The ebook retails for A$4.99, and the paperback for £9.99.

Nothing But Flowers is an anthology of twenty-five short stories, including my story, Daisy's Café, centred around the premise of love in a post-apocalyptic world. I wrote a blog post about the project, which you can find here.

Here's the blurb...

In a devastated world, a voice calls out through the darkness of space, a young woman embraces Darwin, a man lays flowers in a shattered doorway, a two-dimensional wedding feast awaits guests, a Dodge Challenger roars down the deserted highway …and that’s just the beginning.

Inspired by the Talking Heads’ song of the same name, Nothing but Flowers explores the complexities and challenges of love in a post-apocalyptic landscape; from a take-away coffee mug to a gun to the head, a fortune cookie to a guitar, the open road and beyond.

Poignant, funny, horrifying and sensual, this collection of short fiction leaves an indelible mark on ideas of what it means to love and be loved.

All profits from the sale of this anthology go to The Grantham Flood Support Fund. Grantham is a town in Queensland that was devastated by flooding in January 2011.

Nothing But Flowers is available in ebook format here, and on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com, and should be available to order from your favourite local bookshop in about a week or so.

The ebook retails for A$4.99, and the paperback for £5.99

Go on, buy them both, you know you want to...

By the way, this happens to be the 150th post here at Future; Nostalgic and I for one can't think of a better subject to celebrate such a milestone. Now go buy the books, okay?

#FridayFlash: Northern Vampire Tales – The Female Of The Species...Part 2

2011-05-12T09:29:00.000+01:00

This story is part 10 in the Northern Vampire series. It follows directly on from part 1 of the story, which I posted last week and which can be found here. I also have a blog page here that lists all my vampire stories in chronological order.

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We join our hero, tied to a chair in a disused warehouse by the Tyne, being lectured by Charlene Benson. He is fairly sure a good kicking, or worse is in the offing...

---------

Well bugger me, Geordie Benson has a big sister! I bet there's no younger siblings though, one look at Geordie as a baby would be enough to put anyone off from breeding again.

'I divvent normally get involved in stuff like this, like,' Charlene says, ' but you've cost me money, Mr Wheeler.' She lets that sink in for a bit. 'I can't say I'm too keen on that.'

It's not topping my list either.

'So what's going to happen in a minute is that Dave and Sean here are going to extract from your hide what you cost me in cold, hard cash, bonny lad.'

She seems to have got a grip on herself now. Looks like it's all business from here on in.

'And when they're finished, Mr Wheeler, I'm going to blow your knackers off,' she indicates the gun with a flourish, 'for what you did to poor Geordie over there.'

'What did I do, exactly?' I feign ignorance.

It was Marek and Piotr's bomb as I recall.

'What did you do? What did you do?!' she asks, her voice rising. 'If poor Geordie hadn't been in the bog when your bomb went off he'd be dead.' There's an edge to her voice now. 'The blast blew him into the bath and that saved his life, like, but not before it'd blown most of his face off.' She's shaking again now as she backs off a few steps.

She nods to Dave and Sean and they take a step forward.

Time to go.

I flex my wrists and ankles and the cable ties holding me to the chair snap like liquorice laces.

Ah, so that's what they were, cable ties.

I duck out of the chain and stand, just in time for the heavy to my right, Dave is it, to swing his baseball bat at my midriff. Dancing backwards over the chair at the last moment, I flick the end of the bat away as it passes. Dave is off-balance and over-extends himself in rotation, stumbling as I step in behind him and shove him forward at the same time as Sean lunges with the knife.

Sean's knife slips in under Dave's ribs with hardly a sound, just a surprised grunt from Dave as he keels over, ricochetting into his mate. Sean has his hands full of Dave and is still trying to focus on the hilt sticking out of his mate's chest as I snap out my fist and crush the cartilage in his throat. He claws at his neck and goes down gurgling, all tangled up with Dave.

I can move quite quickly when I have to.

The air parts and I feel something hot graze my cheek before the percussive shock wave and the boom of the shot reach me. In a heartbeat I'm behind Charlene, one hand on her wrist and the other wrapped tight about her neck. Behind me I can hear gurgling and quick breaths being taken.

'Didn't Geordie tell you?' I whisper, my fangs sliding into place as I relieve Charlene of the gun. Charlene goes rigid, her eyes like saucers as she cranes her neck to catch a glimpse of my face.

God, she smells good. O+ I think.

I swing her round and lob her down the factory where she lands in a winded heap a few yards away.

'Now then, Geordie, lad.' I advance on the wheelchair. 'Christ, mate, you're a bit of a sight.'

Geordie's nose is gone, and most of his eyelids too. The combination of burnt flesh and ointment is almost enough to make me gag. I mean, he was an ugly bugger to start with, but now...

'Typical of you,' I continue, 'lurking in the loo when there's work to be done. I wouldn't be surprised if you were hiding in there, cracking one off?' I poke the end of the pistol's barrel into his crotch and he whimpers.

'Shut up, Geordie.'

He tries to claw the oxygen mask from his face with hands encased in pressure dressings. The bits of his fingers I can see are livid with new scar tissue. Realising he's never going to be able to get the mask off, Geordie slumps in the chair.

'That looks sore,' I venture, then, glancing over my shoulder at Charlene who's managed to get herself into a sitting position and is gasping in great gulps of air, 'does she have to wipe your arse for you an' all, Geordie?'

I see him stiffen.

'Now then, bonny lad,' I mimic Geordie's accent for the last bit, 'I don't take too kindly to being dragged away from my evening constitutional without so much as a by-your-leave. It makes me, irritable. And when I get irritable--'

Geordie screams as I force the gun into his hand and curl his ruined fingers round the grip. He jumps when I help him pull the trigger, then lapses into soft mewling as he sees the bullet take Charlene full in the chest, crimson blossoming out over her white blouse. She grunts and slumps over.

'Canny shot!' I say by way of encouragement.

My ears are still ringing as I manoeuvre the wheelchair slowly over to the open loading dock on the eastern side of the building. Geordie's snivelling and I'm sure he thinks I'm going to tip him out of the chair into the Tyne.

'Didn't the hospital give you a pair of those dark glasses, seeing as how you can't close your eyes now?' I chuckle at the thought of Geordie all done up like Roy Orbisson. I bet he's got a crap singing voice. Geordie sobs softly and scrabbles for the top pocket of his jacket.

'Here, let me.' I reach into his pocket and pull out the glasses, theatrically fumbling them out of my grip off the edge of the loading dock. 'Oops. Butter fingers.'

I look at my watch. 'I'd better be off now,' I whisper in Geordie's ear. 'I reckon you've got an hour before the sun comes up, a couple more before it gets really painful. You might want to call someone while you can still see to dial--'

A dark stain spreads out from Geordie's lap. He understands the implication.

'Aw, Geordie, man. Have a little class, will you?'

#FridayFlash: Northern Vampire Tales – The Female Of The Species...Part 1

2011-05-05T21:00:00.001+01:00

This story is part 9 in the Northern Vampire series. I have a blog page here that lists all my vampire stories in chronological order.

________________________________

The following takes place about four months after Lucien's new club opens. Everything has been quiet since the events of Northern Vampire Part 8 until...

What's that? I'm a bit disorientated when I come to in the dark, sitting down and tied to a chair. The last thing I remember is stepping out of the private entrance behind the club after closing time and then...nothing. It does go to show that, whatever anyone may tell you, vampires can be rendered unconscious. While you're dwelling on that little nugget, let me get back to the story.

Under the circumstances, I reckon not showing any outward signs of being awake may be the way to go here, at least until I can work out where “here” is and what I'm up against. My senses are working overtime. There's a breeze in my face and it's cold in here. I haven't burst into flames yet so either it's still night time or I'm inside.

There's a pigeon in here. It's somewhere up and to my left, I can hear its claws skittering across metal, a girder perhaps? There are also chains rattling gently in the breeze that's blowing in my face. The breeze brings a low rumble of traffic in the distance and closer, the put-put-put of a diesel engine, marine I think, not a large one; a work boat, launch or something about that size. Without moving my head its hard to pinpoint, but I think it's ahead of me somewhere and moving diagonally to my left.

There's a smell of dust, brick dust I think, and decay about the place, I'm also getting dampness and a hint of mould. There's a whiff of oil and something else metallic that I can't quite place, then in the background the tang of salt and ozone, but no sound of waves on the shore so that rules out the coast. Rotting fish, diesel fumes and a hint of something unmentionable – a river. Tidal. The Tyne?

I feel the rough ground through the soles of my rather expensive shoes. It idly occurs to me that if my shoes are ruined there'll be hell to pay.

My ankles are tied to the legs of the chair, I presume its a chair, with something narrow. I can feel it biting into the skin even through my socks; not a rope then. My arms have been similarly treated, only they're pulled back and tied to the chair back. There's something heavy and cold against my neck that comes over both shoulders, draping in a diagonal cross over my chest then onto the floor. It feels like a chain against my skin.

Okay, enough is enough. I raise my head slightly and open my eyes. There's the scuff of a shoe on the broken ground to my right, quite close, and a sharp intake of breath. I think I just gave somebody a fright.

'Err...he's awake, like.'

I recognise that voice. Last time I heard it, it ended up in hospital with several fractured ribs.

'Glad you could join us, Mr Wheeler.' This voice is different, more of a whispered croak really, not a voice at all.

I focus on where the voice is coming from, taking in the two big lads in my peripheral vision, one standing each side of me about six feet distant. A few yards ahead is a wheelchair, the occupant of which looks familiar silhouetted in the moonlight streaming in through the old warehouse's open loading dock.

'As I live and breathe,' both lies but I force some levity into my tone, 'Geordie bloody Benson! Fancy seeing you here. I thought you were dead?'

'As you can see, Mr Wheeler,' Geordie whispers, 'Reports of my demise have been--'

'Greatly exaggerated?'

'Aye.'

'Shame.'

That earns me a crack on the skull from “Ribs” to my left.

'Leave him,' Geordie tries to shout as you would at a recalcitrant dog, instead he dissolves into a fit of coughing and needs help with the oxygen mask from the person who up until now I haven't noticed standing behind the wheelchair.

'It's alright, pet,' she croons softly, 'Take a few belts of this and you'll be champion, like.'

That's a turn-up for the books. I didn't think Geordie had a girlfriend.

'Hey, Geordie,' I call over, 'One of those slappers from the club providing personal services for you now?' Geordie had a nice little sideline in prostitution the last time I saw him.

More coughing and spluttering.

'I'm nee slapper, you cheeky bastard,' she barks, stepping forward. 'He's me kid brother, like.'

I'm still reeling from this revelation when “Ribs” smacks me in the side of the head so hard the chair tips over.

'Divent dee that, man,' she bellows while the two heavies turn me back the right way up. 'He's mine.' Geordie gurgles in the background.

I focus on her again. Where did that gun come from? The pistol looks huge in her small hand but I'll worry about that later, right now I'm more concerned with the fact that she's pointing it at me. I may have to do something about that. You see, Geordie I knew...I know. Evil he may be, but he likes a good speech before the tire irons start flying. This one I don't know, but I can see she's wound tighter than a watch spring, her knuckles white against the pistol's grip, and that's what makes her dangerous, not the gun.

She's shaking as she walks slowly towards me, and I don't think it's because of the cold. Nor do I think she's scared. She nearly turns an ankle on the rubble underfoot and I start praying the gun isn't going to go off.

'My name, Mr Wheeler, is Charlene Benson. Geordie works for me.'

With her accent, it comes out as “Mista.” So, this is the power behind the throne.

#FridayFlash: The Vampire Rabbit of Dean Street

2011-04-28T21:00:00.001+01:00

The following is inspired by Icy Sedgwick's Photo Prompt 29 - Vampire Rabbit.

The story takes place first thing on a Monday morning in Newcastle and, owing to the location in which the story is set, includes a few words in the local dialect and idiom of the area. The building in question, and the rabbit statue really do exist, the characters on the other hand, are fictional.

Geordie and Jack are having a quick mug of tea before starting work on the facade of the building they are employed to rennovate...

________________________________

'Geordie, will you look at that?!' Jack pointed up to the front of the building they'd been working on.

'What, man?' Geordie put down his copy of the Daily Mirror swivelled round and glanced in the direction Jack pointed.

'Some bugger's nicked the rabbit, like.'

Geordie's gaze zeroed in on the plinth above the building's main entrance.

'Aw, shite! We'll be right in the clarts when Jamieson sees this.' Geordie tipped the rest of his tea onto the pavement and stood. 'Give us a hand then.'

'What with, like?'

'That, Jackie man, that.' Geordie indicated the hydraulic platform they'd been sitting on for their tea break. 'One of us is going to have to gan up and have a shufty.'

Jack did not reply, instead he busied himself with the platform's controls, manoeuvring it into place in front of the doorway. Geordie climbed onto the platform's deck and thumbed the switch to raise himself up level with the portico.

'Jackie man, this is a bit bloody weird, like' he called down as he surveyed the rabbit's plinth.

'Why?' Jack was more concerned about finding and replacing the statue before Jamieson, their foreman, discovered it was missing. Jamieson's temper was legendary and Jack had been the one responsible for locking off the platform the previous Friday night. It had been his daughter's birthday and he'd wanted to get away early, though as he thought about it, he was sure he had locked the platform's controls. Hadn't he unlocked them just now? If he hadn't locked them on Friday, that meant the platform had been left accessible all weekend.

'There's nee sign of any fixings, like,' replied Geordie as he reached out to run his fingertips over the smooth stone of the plinth. 'Not a bloody bolt hole nor nowt. It's like the rabbit was never here.'

'That's queer.'

'Queer? It's bloody odd is what it is, Jackie, man. There's not even a weather mark for where the statue's been neither.'

Geordie's eyes lit upon something he hadn't noticed at first.

'What it is?' called Jack.

'I divent narr, bonny lad. I know what it looks like, but,' Geordie paused, 'It can't be.'

'Can't be what, like?'

'Claw marks. On the front of the plinth. It's like summat was up here, flexing its fingers--'

'Paws'

'What?'

'Paws. Rabbits haven't got fingers.'

'Listen, clever shite, whether whatever it is has fingers, paws or whatever is the least of our worries. A better question is where the hell's it gone, like?'

Jack shrugged.

'Fat lot of help you are,' Geordie fumed as he lowered the platform back to ground level, wondering what sort of excuse they could come up with that Jamieson might go for. 'There's nowt for it, bonny lad. We'll have to tell him before he finds out, like.'

'But what are we going to tell him?' Jack ran a hand through his salt and pepper hair.

'I'm buggered if I know, but if he finds out second hand we'll both be collecting our cards.'

With weary hearts, Geordie and Jack headed for the site office.

'You did lock off the platform on Friday, Jackie, didn't you?'

* * *

A large black rabbit, about the size of a spaniel, crouched in the shadows of an industrial sized bin washing the last of the blood off its face with both paws. Thankfully the street was still deserted this early in the morning and, as soon as the two men passed, the rabbit broke cover and raced towards the building.

Its muscular back legs pumping, the rabbit hurtled towards the hydraulic platform. At the last second, when collision seemed inevitable, the rabbit leapt, describing a perfect arc through the clear morning air to land, with what appeared a well-practiced move, right in the middle of the plinth above the doors.

As the rabbit settled quickly into a crouched position, a roar of anger echoed from the nearby tin hut, followed closely by the sight of three men, a larger red-faced man preceding two others, running towards the building.

Three pairs of eyes raised skywards to meet the re-painted ones of the crouching rabbit statue above the building's entrance.

'So, it's gone, has it?' The red-faced man rounded on the other two, who quailed under his gaze. 'I don't know what you pair of silly bastards are trying to pull, but any more practical jokes and I'll sack the bloody pair of you.'

With that Jamieson spun on his heel and marched off toward the tin hut.

Geordie and Jack exchanged bewildered glances before Geordie shrugged and went to buy tea from a nearby café.

Jack, shielding his eyes against the morning sun, squinted up at the rabbit atop its plinth. His stomach turned to ice as he could have sworn the rabbit winked at him.

By the time Geordie returned with the tea, Jack had resolved to pack his job in and change careers. He wasn't sure what to exactly, but he figured he should be fine so long as it had nothing to do with rabbits.

#FridayFlash: Northern Vamp Tales Part 8

2011-04-21T21:00:00.000+01:00

aka a Story, a Boo and a Question.

This story is part 8 in the Northern Vampire series. It follows on directly from my story Answers Part 3, which can be found here. I have a blog page here that lists all my vampire stories in chronological order.

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I'm in Newcastle, for my sins, sorting out the refurb of Lucien's new club. It's in a back lane off the Bigg Market, a bit of a dive, used to be a solicitor's offices.

Lucien's got this team of Polish builders in, and I don't understand a word they say but they're a canny bunch of lads. At least the foreman, Marek, speaks a bit of English. They seem to like me too, which might have something to do with me sorting out that traffic warden who came sniffing around the first night they were here. They're dossing down on site, see, and their van's on the double yellows out front.

I was in the office when it happened – I heard raised voices and a lot of Polish so I went down to see what was up and there's this little parking vulture tapping away at his computer. He was going to give them a ticket and Marek was doing his nut, so I called the warden over, showed him my fangs and told the specky little twat to piss off. God, I hate traffic wardens.

What do you mean, worried about drawing attention to myself? Bollocks! We're fireproof we are, well, you know what I mean. Friends in all the right places.

We've had no trouble since, and the van's been there a month now; funny, that.

I'm not enjoying sleeping on the office floor mind, it's not what I'm used to, too much like being back on the streets. Marek said yesterday he was surprised they didn't wake me during the renovations.

'We make early start, every day. Finish late,' he says, 'hammering, banging, all the time.'

They've been taking a wall down.

'But we not see you. You not disturb by our work?'

I shake my head.

He shakes his, 'You must sleep sleep of dead, no?' then jabbers something in Polish at Stanislav who's just put a nail through his hand, the silly sod.

He doesn't see me smile as I excuse myself. I tell him the sight of blood makes me nauseous and he laughs. It doesn't of course, it makes me hungry and it wouldn't do to eat the staff.

They also like me 'cos I can drink them under the table, which is no mean feat if you've seen how much Polish vodka these lads can put away; 95% proof it is and you could probably run your car on it. It's an interesting fact though, that I can still drink, but no matter how much alcohol I pour down my neck I never get pissed. Impresses Marek no end, that does.

You remember that woman in the back of my white van? Yeah, that's the one. Turns out she was a “goodwill gesture” from Lucien to the head lad up here, something about sealing the deal in blood, Lucien says. Aye that's right, we're everywhere if you'd only look, not too hard though, you might not like what you find.

In the end I swapped vans in an industrial estate in Gateshead a night late, but I reckon we must have got away with it because I haven't heard anything about the late delivery since.

The deeds to the club and a bundle of used fifties were in the glove box as arranged, which is handy 'cos Marek's very obliging for cash.

The only bother we've had so far is with the knuckle-dragging arseholes who owned the club further up the street. They reckon they're hard lads, Geordie Benson and the Bigg Market Boys they call themselves. Bunch of wankers. Anyway, two of them caught Tomas having a fag out the back by the bins the other night and gave him a right good going over. Broke all his fingers, which is a bit of a bastard, him being a chippy.

Piotr found him, he's Marek's gas fitter. He comes in all full of hell, the veins on his neck in danger of bursting. I had to look away. When I found out what had occurred I was all for calling the emergency number Lucien gave me, but Marek's all, 'Is no problem. We take care of this.'

He looks at me with this half smile and an expression that'd chill you to the bone. He scares the fuck out of me when he's like that, and I'm a vampire. I wouldn't want to have to take him on. He'd lose, but still.

'I was not always builder,' is all he says and I believe him.

Next morning's gas explosion, that's what plod says it is and who am I to argue, completely levels Geordie's place, taking him and most of his crew with it. We knew they were still in there 'cos Tomas had been casing the place from our front window. Poor sod couldn't do much else, his fingers splinted like that, just watch, drink vodka and curse.

I met Geordie the first day I arrived. He couldn't wait to pop over and “introduce” himself. I put two of his lads in hospital that time. Fat, greasy bastard is, was, Geordie. Forehead like a set of stepped balconies and beady eyes like a rat, but you could see the menace behind them. Smoked like a chimney too and didn't give a fuck about rules and regulations. I'm pretty sure the anti-smoking law didn't extend as far as Geordie's office in the club, I just neglected to appraise Marek of that fact.

Turns out Piotr was over there the night before after closing time, doctoring the booze in Geordie's office so they were all sound asleep when it blew. I never did find out how he got in, probably best not to ask, know what I mean?

I think Marek and Piotr only planned to gas Geordie and his lads but hey, two birds with one stone and all that. Lucien's club should do quite nicely now the competition's out of the picture.

Anyhow, I'd better get on. We open tomorrow night and there's still a million and one things need doing. I've got pole dancers to interview for one thing, and the very thought is making me peckish.

________________________________

And now, as Monthy Python would say, for something completely different...

Having been “encouraged” for months I have finally, and with much trepidation, taken the plunge and recorded the above story as an AudioBoo. If you could spare me a couple of minutes, four minutes and fifty-five seconds to be precise, to have a listen and to hear the world-famous voice that has been described as a cat gargling with spanners for the first time, please hit Play below; I'd appreciate it. I have the perfect voice for print, so don't say I didn't warn you!

Listen!

And finally, the question, well, three questions really: how does listening to the story as opposed to reading it change your perception of my character and story? Would you care to hazard a guess at the number of spanners the cat is gargling with? And, should I do it again?

If you'd like to read my thoughts on AudioBoo as a concept, last year I was kindly invited to write a guest post for Tony Noland's Landless blog.

#FridayFlash: Answers Part 3

2011-04-14T21:00:00.000+01:00

This story is part 3 in the Northern Vampire: Answers series. The previous instalment can be found here, and if you'd like to read it from the beginning, please go here.

________________________________

So there I am, propped up in Lucien's armchair, feeling like shite while he regales me with more of his story. I'm not really sure I'm up to this, it feels like my brain's in danger of dribbling out of my ears. As I was to learn later, much later, there's no stopping Lucien once he's got a bee in his bonnet about something, of course I'd don't know this yet, for now it's like having to sit through your Auntie's holiday snaps in a single sitting, all of them.

Anyway, Lucien's still speaking, banging on about his Conversion...

...my brain finishes the thought for me with, “...on the road to Damascus” and I nearly get the giggles. Thankfully Lucien doesn't seem to notice, so wrapped up is he in his memories.

'I lay in cellar for two days and nights while the Purge was upon me, and was close to immolation when, on the third day I attempted to leave my sanctuary during daylight. It was not until darkness fell that I gathered my courage and left that accursed cellar. I fervently prayed--'

He laughs.

'Prayed I would not be discovered by the Infidel, and I was not. I know now that I had some power over their minds even in my weakened state, though at the time I concluded luck, and God must be on my side.'

Lucien pauses and sips his drink.

Is that red wine?

'Passing through the enemy lines proved a more simple task than I had imagined. My senses tingled, I was alert to everything. I presumed this was because of my fear of being discovered, of being captured, I know now it was my body's natural reaction to my new state of being.'

I don't think that is red wine, you know. And it ain't fecking Ribena either.

I'm having trouble following this. Feels like someone is blowing a high-pitched whistle right in my ears. I lean over and puke my guts up into the bucket.

'A crippling weakness came upon me suddenly as I neared the camp of my Order, and had the shepherd's hut not presented itself I fear I may have died lying in the desert when the sun rose.'

Lucien pauses again, staring over my shoulder with a glazed look in his eyes.

Is that a tear rolling down his cheek?

'What I did to Marzuq and his family that night...I regret to this day, especially to little Basim. A lovely boy, he seemed to have no fear of us despite our sickness, he often assisted me with the care of Mistral--'

He gestures at the horse in the glass case.

'That I should repay that kindness with death has haunted me to this day.'

'You killed...all of them?' I croak.

Lucien takes a moment before replying. 'I did not wish to, but once the urge to feed comes upon us, only a supreme effort of will prevents us from feeding at the first opportunity. You have yet to face the Urge,' he says with a wry smile and my guts turn to ice.

'When I stumbled into camp, my fellows took my being covered in blood to mean I had been attacked and carried me to my tent where I lay in a stupor for what seemed like days, unable to rise or to speak.'

Lucien wanders over to the French doors, slides them closed, staring out through the smoked glass for a while. I concentrate on trying to stay upright in the chair.

'Most of the camp was sure I had been struck down with the plague and would come nowhere near my tent, though after two days with neither food nor water two of my brother knights ventured to see if I still lived. As they approached the pallet on which I lay I was seized by the Urge once more--'

He's a bloody maniac! How many people has he killed?

Lucien glares at me. 'I know not what was different, but suffice to say my two brother knights and I left our camp under cover of darkness three days later and made for home.'

I fumble through the maths on my fingers.

That means there's...

'Three of us. Yes, you are correct, though only two of us still live.'

Lucien looks genuinely sad and for the first time I feel a sense of pity for him.

'Do not pity me, boy,' he roars and I nearly jump clean out of the chair. He's next to me in a heartbeat, his face inches from my nose.

'Never pity me,' he hisses. I make a mental note never to pity him.

'Enough!' he says, 'You need to rest. We will talk again once you have regained your strength.'

Lucien produces a blanket from somewhere, chucks it over me and stalks off into the hall. I just sit there, dribbling.

Emma Newman on Tour

2011-04-11T13:43:00.015+01:00

As I sit here listening to the heavy rain bouncing off my windowsill, my mind is drawn back to the splendid sunshine of yesterday and to the lovely couple of hours I spent in the company of Emma Newman at her book signing event in Sunderland.

Emma recently released her anthology of short stories, From Dark Places, and as part of her book launch and tour she kindly agreed to make the trek up to the north east for a signing.

Emma Newman looking suitably enigmatic behind the cover
of her anthology of short stories, From Dark Places.

Over the next few weeks, Emma will be appearing at events in London and the southwest, if you can spare her a couple of hours of your time you won't be disappointed.

As part of the event, we were treated to a reading of The Letter, one of the From Dark Places stories, and a personal favourite of mine.

Emma reading "The Letter," one of the From Dark Places stories
at her Sunderland book signing.

From Dark Places is an eclectic mix of twenty-five wonderfully dark stories, some shot through with humour, and all told in Emma's inimitable style. What makes them all the more special is the stories were inspired by prompts given by members of Emma's Short Story Club; if you haven't signed up yet, you really should. I'll wait, it'll only take you a moment...

...You're back? Good. Here's the rear cover blurb:

Abby finds a creative solution to her father’s problems. Ben makes a pact with the Devil for a new Mum. Katie is pursued by unrelenting voices. John just found his colleague’s hand in a strange girl’s lap. Jarvis is falling apart on his wedding day. Rosalind comes face-to-face with her number one fan. And that is just the beginning.

E.J. Newman’s debut anthology is a dark and twisting journey across the urban landscape, mining the rich seam of human frailties with insight and humour. The stories traverse the magical and the mundane, where supernatural beings are indistinguishable from their mortal counterparts in their complexity and complicity.

Edited by Jodi Cleghorn, writer, managing editor of Chinese Whisperings and joint owner of eMergent Publishing along with UK writer Paul Anderson, From Dark Places is published by eMergent Publishing in the UK and Australia and is available in both ebook and print formats from Emma's website.

Emma Newman signing books at the Sunderland event.

From Dark Places gives an excellent introduction to Emma's work ahead of the publication in July of her debut novel, 20 Years Later. Published by Dystopia Press, 20 Years Later is a Young Adult tale of life in a post-apocalyptic future London, and can be pre-ordered now from Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.

#5MinuteFiction: And...We Have A Winner!

2011-04-06T14:01:00.004+01:00

Afternoon all! Well, the poll is now closed and the results are in. We've had 31 votes cast since yesterday, so a huge thank you to everyone who took part and voted.

And now, with out further pontificating on my part, I am pleased to announce...

...pauses to build the tension like on TV talent shows...

...not yet...

...nearly time for the announcement...

Drum roll please! And the winner is...

Corinne O’Flynn (@CorinneOFlynn on Twitter) with a whopping 18 votes. Here's her entry:

The police detective stood over the body that was sprawled on the floor at his feet. There was blood everywhere, so much blood. And the way her body'd been flayed open like that was clearly the work of the same guy. No doubt about it.

"You wanna call it?" The police officer asked.

"Yeah, no question. It's the work of the same guy." The detective said. "We've got to catch him soon, or the chief's gonna have us for breakfast."

This was the fourth body to be found in as many days. Usually a serial killer took a break in between kills. Not this guy. If you counted the hours he was actually ramping up. Not good. Not good at all.

The two detectives stood on the edge of the room, careful to touch nothing and stand still on the small patch of dry wood floor available amidst the blood. The forensics team was still five minutes away.

There was a creaking sound above them. The two officers looked up and stared, the brains not comprehending what their eyes were clearly seeing.

The creature crouched on the ceiling like a fly. It was looking down at them with a curious look on its leathery purple-skinned face. It was covered in orange fur that seemed to sparkle in the harsh light from the single bulb in the corner of the room.

There was a snick as it opened its blade-like claws, a single drop of blood dripped to the floor. Its face spread wide in a grisly smile. The two detectives had nowhere to go, the door behind them was shut and opened inward.

The creature had them trapped.

Congratulations, Corinne!

Even if you missed the contest, you can still read the entries here, and find out what our guest judge, Julie Morrigan, thought about the finalists here.

Thanks again to everyone who took part in this week's #5MinuteFiction. Catch you later!

#5MinuteFiction Blog Tour: The Finalists

2011-04-05T19:40:00.004+01:00

Evening all, Sam here again!

Thanks to everyone who took part in #5MinuteFiction this week. Julie has given me her picks and the poll is up in the sidebar to your left. Yes, yes, I know I said it was going to be in the previous post, but I guy can change his mind, right? Especially when he can't work out the HTML code to put the poll into the previous post. *ahem*

Anyway, without further ado, here are Julie's thoughts on the contest, her first experience of #5MinuteFiction. Over to you, Julie...

First of all, I want to say that I am full of admiration for everyone who wrote something for the challenge. See a prompt, come up with an idea, write it in five minutes, post it. For an inveterate word-tinkerer like myself, that is a scary prospect. It can take me longer than that to compose an off-the-cuff email. So, well-deserved respect and props to all concerned. You rock!

Now, to the final five. I have to say that my approach to this was the same as the one taken by a lot of the ezines and magazines I like (and sometimes submit to): there were no rejections, just acceptances. From a read through of everything submitted, I got three that stood out for me straight off. Then I had the pleasure of reading through everything again and picking two more favourites. And it was a pleasure, make no mistake. Hanging out with creative and talented people could never be anything else.

So, the five, in the order they appear in the comments:

1) D. Paul - I love how this opens a window onto what is clearly a much bigger conflict, how it takes a small part of the whole and distils it into personal danger, courage and sacrifice. For me, that’s how big issues are understood: by looking at how they affect the individual. Nice work!

2) S.P. Bowers - this is such a lovely snapshot of a dysfunctional relationship, of the destructive games people play. The characters are beautifully drawn and one cannot help but wonder how many sets of drawn curtains in suburbia shield us from this kind of nightmare.

3) Corinne O’Flynn - just brilliant. It was horrific enough to think a serial killer was on the loose, but the locked door and the monster on the ceiling? And that single drop of blood was chilling.

4) Rebecca T - I felt like I had been caught in an avalanche when I read this. So nicely written - and yet absolutely suffocating.

5) That Neil Guy - I love this, the set-up, the pay off. I laughed out loud. This is truly a cautionary tale for anyone tempted to nick a woman’s beer. Be warned!

Thanks again to everyone who took part, and to Sam for giving me the chance to get involved. Great fun, I absolutely loved it!

So, there you have it. Thanks so much for judging, Julie.

To read the entries, please go here:

Now, go and vote, people!

#5MinuteFiction Blog Tour

2011-04-05T07:32:00.015+01:00

Hello #5MinuteFictionistas! Are you ready for this?

First of all, welcome to Future; Nostalgic and many thanks to Leah Petersen for inviting me to be part of the #5MinuteFiction blog tour, I'm thrilled.

For anyone who hasn't participated before, I'd just like to run through the rules, and then I'll introduce our guest judge for this week. First, the rules...

The Rules

The contest starts at 6:30pm GMT (1:30pm EST) and I'll ammend this post at that point to include this week's prompt. You will then have five minutes (hence the name #5MinuteFiction. Good, eh?) to write a piece of prose in any style or genre. Your piece must reference this week's prompt.

Post your piece in the comments on this post by 6:45pm GMT (1:45pm EST); the extra time is to take account of the vagaries of the internet. I'll round out the contest with a comment at the end then hand the judging over to our guest judge for the week, more about them later. Our guest judge will nominate five finalists and I'll add a poll to this post at 8:00pm GMT (3:00pm EST) and you can all vote. You do not need to have taken part in the contest to vote.

The poll will run until just before 2:00pm GMT (9:00am EST) on Wednesday, 6th April, when I'll close the poll and announce the winner here at Future;Nostalgic.

This week's prompt is: Trap

(Note: The prompt is the word. The picture is for inspiration.
Thanks to Future; Nostalgic's Skiing Correspondent for the photo.)

Our guest judge this week is my good friend and fellow northern writer, Julie Lewthwait e, who writes as Julie Morrigan. Julie has recently published her first e-book, a short story anthology entitled Gone Bad, which is available on Amazon.co.uk, Amazon.com, and over at Smashwords. Gone Bad is an excellent collection of dark tales of human nature, here's the Smashwords description:

Tales about bad people doing bad things. This short story collection features a rare cast of characters: flawed, foul-mouthed, misguided and downtrodden, all of whom might be said to have, in one way or another, ‘gone bad’. This is strong stuff, no holds barred and no punches pulled. You wouldn’t want to be sharing the last bus home with these people!

I must confess to not having published a review of Gone Bad yet as I'm reading it through laced fingers from behind a cushion! It really is a great anthology, and I heartily recommend it.

Right then, just a couple of things before I sign off...

In the interests of ease, it's probably better to just type your submission directly into the comments box at the end of this post. Don't forget to save a copy before you hit Send, just in case Blogger eats your entry. Any problems, drop me a line through my Contact Me page and I'll do my best to assist.

Don't forget to add your Twitter handle to your entry if you have one, and a link to your blog if you'd like to.

And finally, there is no prize for this contest, so just do it for fun and enjoy yourself!

Right then, see you back here at 6:30pm GMT (1:30pm EST) for the fun and games!

#FridayFlash: Answers Part 2

2011-03-31T21:00:00.000+01:00

As the long velvet curtains closed behind Lucien I considered my options. On the one hand, he did tell a good story, on the other hand...

In a heartbeat, ironic turn of phrase don't you think, I'm sprinting through the long hall, hoping I can find the exit. It's not going to be back up those stairs, so I plunge through the ground-floor door and skid to a halt in a tiled-floored lobby.

I have a quick look round – there's a door ahead of me and one to my left, but it's the big iron-bound oak door to my right that looks like my best best, I reckon. I dash past a rail of coats and muddy boots and throw my shoulder against the door. And bounce off. It's locked. Shit.

Oh, hang on, this door's got one of those posh locks on it that means it's locked from the outside, but has a latch on this side so you can always get out. I flick the latch, haul the door open – why do you always push a pull door when you're panicing – and dive through.

There's the brief sensation of gravel under my bare feet. Next thing I know, I'm going arse-over-tit, coming to rest upside down in a flowerbed. I'd expect to be winded, but I'm not. Odd, that. Lucien's leaning against the front wall rubbing the scuff mark off his shoe where he tripped me.

'I told you you'd never make it,' he says, helping me to my feet. 'You'd best come back inside, the sun will be up in an hour.'

The sun? What the hell does that have to do with anything, I wonder.

Lucien slings an arm around my shoulders and propels be back into the house. I mutter every curse I can think of, and he chuckles when I get to, “may his ears turn to arseholes and shit down his neck.” I glare at him out the corner of my eye.

'Aren't you going to lock that?' I tip my head towards the front door as Lucien kicks it shut behind us.

'No need. Once the sun rises, neither of us is going anywhere.'

So, the part about sunlight and vampires must be true, but why's he including me in that statement?

Reality dawns with a suddeness that makes my legs turn to jelly and my stomach turns over. Lucien catches me before I fall, but can't stop me chundering a mixture of whisky and bile all over his expensive-looking carpet.

I swear, if he says, 'Better out than in,' I'll swing for him.

'The Purge has begun. Good,' is what he says instead and I still want to take a swing at him, but I'm feeling decidedly wobbly so he half-carries me back to the armchair and sits down opposite.

My head's spinning and I'm not sure I'm taking this all in. I only dimly notice Lucien placing a bucket next to my chair before the rest of the whisky comes back up.

'How long?' I croak.

'The Purge?'

I nod, weakly.

'Twenty four hours, or thereabouts.'

Looking back on it, I'm quite surprised it doesn't take longer to remove every last, lingering shred of my humanity. You'd think it'd take longer.

'You will feel better once the Purge has run its course. You might even feel like eating something by tomorrow.'

Did he say eating someone? I'm having real trouble keeping up. Feels like my brain is being extracted through my eye sockets with a blunt teaspoon.

'Rest, don't try to talk. You will need all your strength later.'

Rest? No kidding! I'll put my plans for running the London marathon on hold for now then, shall I?

'Since you seem to be prepared to listen to the rest of my story, I shall continue.'

Prepared to? Prepared to?! And just what else did I have on my social calendar for this evening? As I feel as weak as a kitten and probably couldn't stand even if I wanted to, I decide it might be better not to mention this out loud.

Lucien's eyes narrow. Oh shit, he thought-heard me again.

'As I was saying,' he continues, 'it was dark when the woman came. I know this for there were no chinks of light through the rocks which entombed me and it was cold. From her speech I thought her a Saracen woman. The only part of me left exposed was my left forearm. I never saw her face, just felt a stabbing pain in my wrist and began to feel weak, so very weak. I thought she had opened my veins and left me to bleed to death when I heard her piling rocks over my arm.

I know not whether I slept or was unconscious but, as I later discovered, I lay beneath that pile of stones for two days and nights until my strength returned and I was finally able to claw my way out. I was still weak, as you are now, but I was alive. Or so I believed.'

#FridayFlash: Answers Part 1

2011-03-25T07:22:00.004Z

Where was I? Oh aye, I was telling you about Lucien wasn't I? So there I was, sitting in one of Lucien's high-backed leather armchairs, a fine single malt sloshing round my glass because I couldn't stop my hands from shaking, and there he is, peering down the length of the blade of that sharp-looking broadsword he has pointing vaguely in the direction of my chest. I remember thinking I wish he'd put that bloody sword down.

Lucien crosses to the fireplace and hangs the sword on some sword stand-type thing. My shaking hands step down a notch. He pours himself a drink while I go to sip mine, miss my mouth and pour half of it down my front. Shit.

There's a smile on Lucien's face as he turns. It's like he heard me or something, but that's daft, I never said a word.

'My name,' he announces like a music hall impresario, 'is Luc de Senniere.'

He bows. All I can think is, Oh God, not only is he a paedo, he's French too. No hint of an accent, mind. I start wondering if I can make it through those open doors to the garden before he can stop me, he seems a bit nifty on his feet. I'm so caught up in that thought I almost miss the next bit. Almost.

'And I am a vampire.'

That last word knocks on my brain to attract attention like a bloke with a sledgehammer. I go all hot and cold at the same time. It's like I'm not really in my own body. I hear myself giggle, then laugh, then guffaw so hard my sides ache. Lucien looks genuinely hurt. I don't think that's the reaction he was expecting. I don't think he was too impressed with my next utterance either.

'Bollocks!,' I hear myself say, still fighting to get my breath. 'You're French.' I still don't know why I said that.

Lucien sits down in the chair opposite and broods for a while. I desperately try to get myself under control while still eyeing the doors out of the corner of my eye.

'You'd never make it,' he says and I believe him.

'Alright,' I reply, 'Presuming for just a moment you really are a vampire, where's your fangs then, eh?'

A half smile crosses Lucien's face, then his eyes roll back in their sockets like a shark's and his fangs slide into place.

'Fuck me!' I'm on my feet now, wreathed in a cold sweat.

'Thave yourthelf the trouble,' Lucien lisps round his fangs, 'Thit down and allow me to exthplain.'

I sit down. I'm about to be shagged up the arse by a French vampire, can this get any worse?

Lucien's face returns to normal and he fixes me with those grey eyes of his.

'You have nothing to fear from me--'

I'll be the judge of that, I think.

'—especially not in the way you seem overly concerned with.'

I do my level best to stop thinking. It's not easy.

'As I said, my name is Luc de Senniere, I am indeed French,' his eyes narrow for just a second, 'from a small village in Bretagne, which sadly no longer exists, and I am a vampire.'

I'm not laughing this time.

'I was born in the year of Our Lord 1163, and Awakened in the Holy Land during the aftermath of the Siege of Jerusalem in 1187.'

I've gone cold inside, very cold. My brain's desperately trying to do some quick maths here.

'So that makes you--'

'847 years old. Yes, that is correct.'

I'm still having trouble taking this all in. I did mention history is not my strong point, didn't I?

'So what were you, some sort of knight or summat? A Templar?!'

Lucien laughs, puts his head back and roars with laughter. It's infectious, and soon I'm giggling along with him, until he stops dead and says, 'No. Not a Templar.'

No-one's laughing now.

'I will tell you my story, but you must promise not to interrupt.'

Oh God, don't tell me there'll be questions at the end, I wonder.

'No, there will not be questions.'

I wish he would stop doing that. Gives me the willies, so-to-speak.

'To cut a very long story painfully short, I was born the youngest of four brothers to the lord of Senniere. My family's holding was a poor place so there was no chance of land or wealth for me as the youngest. My father had designs on the church for me, though I had other ideas and determined to make myself, umm...an unattractive proposition for our bishop. On the day of my twentieth birthday I took the cross, my father having no alternative than to arrange the confirmation of my knighthood. His pride would not have allowed him to do otherwise. With horse and armour I set off for Jerusalem in the Spring of 1183.'

There's a sadness about Lucien at this point so as I almost believe him.

'Jerusalem was not how you might imagine it. An ancient city, yes, but not the place described in history books. I could not believe I had been so naive. The heat, the flies, the smell, the sanitation, the Templars under the command of that bastard Gerard de Ridefort,' he pauses, 'and that devil's whelp Reynaud de Chastillon.'

Lucien almost spits the names so I reckon there must be some history there. I watch as he composes himself again before continuing.

'I was able to find myself a place in the retinue of Guy de Lusignan, and that is a story in itself, but soon I became ill. Leprosy. My lord sent me to the hospital of the Order of St Lazarus outside the city walls, though when Salah ad-Dīn laid siege to the city I, and nineteen of my brother knights similarly afflicted were recalled to duty.'

He pauses and sips his drink. 'Six days and nights we fought. I was next to my lord Guy when the wall came down on September the twenty-ninth. If I had not pushed him to safety he would have been crushed. Of course if I had not acted as I did I may not have ended up buried in the rubble myself. I was hurt, badly, but not dead, though I wished to die before the enemy found me.'

Lucien looks over at me and does that half-smile of his. He must be able to see my eyes are like dinner plates and, despite myself, I'm on the edge of my seat waiting to hear how the story ends. That will have to wait though, Lucien has gone all maudlin and doesn't want to talk any more. He mutters something about the battle of the horns, I think, and wanders back out into the garden.

Please note: the views expressed by the characters in this work may not necessarily represent the views of the author. Got that? Good.

#FridayFlash: In Pursuit of Knowledge

2011-03-18T08:29:00.001Z

I come to lying on something softer than the usual concrete floor and it takes me a few minutes to realise I'm in a bed. The black silk sheets are a nice touch. Then I realise I'm naked and have a little wobble, okay, a big wobble. I may even have called Lucien a dirty fuckin' paedo out loud, at least till I check round the back and since my arse doesn't hurt I start to relax a bit.

It's a bit of a shock, let me tell you, waking up starkers in a strange bed. The last thing I remember is being in Lucien's car, and the word Rohypnol keeps marching across my mind in pit boots. I'd better go and have a word, just in case liberties have been taken. I'll not stand for that.

There's a wardrobe full of clothes, expensive designer stuff. That's mildly worrying. Presumably he's done this sort of thing before? Well, if nothing else I may as well profit from a new outfit, so I rake out a pair of decent-looking jeans, a t-shirt, hoodie and a rather nice leather jacket. I dress quickly, then check myself in the mirror, only I don't, 'cos I'm not there.

Whoa! What the f--! What the fuck's going on here? I'm in front of the mirror, slap-bang in front of it, but the reflection only shows an empty room. Alright, time for some answers I think as I head for the door, half expecting to find it locked from the outside, but no, it isn't and I'm padding down a stone corridor cursing myself for not grabbing a pair of trainers to go with my new outfit. In my defence, I'd had a shock. It's not everyday you discover you no longer have a reflection.

The corridor gives out onto a balcony overlooking a long room with a high-ceiling. It looks a bit like the reading room at the British Library. Not that I'd know, I've never set foot in the place. Wouldn't want you thinking I was some sort of literary geek or something. There's some posh furniture in here, sumptuous as my old Mother would say, and a bit at the far end separated off by bookcases. I can see a roaring fire through the gap between them.

I head down the stairs and across the room. The carpet's warm and soft on my feet. I can't resist wiggling my toes in the deep pile, I can't remember the last time I had carpet under my feet. I reach the gap in the bookcases and peer through. It's some kind of office-come sitting room, all big fireplaces and leather high-backed chairs. There's also a desk with one of the latest touch-screen computers on it. So, Lucien's not short of a bob or two. I might make a few quid out of this yet.

Stepping through the gap, I stand in front of the fire, which is nice as I can't seem to get warm since I woke up. As I look round the room from this side, my eyes take in the paintings, old ones like the bollocks you usually find in museums, there's also a table with decanters on it, I make a mental note to help myself later. Then there's the book cases, only they aren't from this side. They're glass display cases. Bloody hell! Running almost from floor to ceiling, the display cases are full of weapons and armour – axes, those spiky ball-on-a-stick things and swords, big bastard sharp looking swords. I feel my stomach turn over.

The other one has a horse in it. Yes, a fucking horse! It's stuffed, I think. I mean, it has to be, either that or it's the best mime I've ever seen. It's got a saddle on, and one of those fancy cloth things knights used to have. A Comparison, or something like that. Can you tell history wasn't my favourite subject at school? The cloth-thing is black, or at least it would have been when it was new, and there's a crest on it – a green cross, a bit like the Knights Templar, but not.

I freeze. Hang on a minute, what's the noise? Sounds like somebody chopping wood. The noise is coming from behind a set of floor to ceiling red velvet curtains. Funny, I hadn't even noticed them before., but now I do I can see there's a draught coming under them that makes the bottom ends billow a bit. I pad over and peep through between them.

There's a big picture window behind, with tinted glass, and a pair of French doors, one of which is open. These look out over a walled garden, in the middle of which is Lucien, stripped to the waist and knocking seven colours of shite out of a wooden post with one of those big swords. And it's dark as pitch out there, must be night time. How long did I sleep?

I let go the curtain and take a step back. Lucien appears as if by magic. Christ Almighty he can shift when he wants to, it must be at least fifty yards to that post.

'You're awake,' he says matter-of-factly.

'Err...yeah,' I murmur. God, I could do with a drink. My hands are shaking.

'You'll be expecting answers.'

I nod, like one of those flamin' dogs you see in the backs of cars. For some reason I can't seem to get the words out.

'Help yourself to a drink and take a seat. I shall explain.'

So I do, and he does, but that's a story for another time. Right now I'm more concerned with that bloody big sword Lucien still has in his hand, it looks sharp and it's pointed my way.

#FridayFlash: Just The Driver

2011-02-24T21:00:00.004Z

All being well the pixies will return next week, but in the meantime, here's a new vampire story starring the same character as in last week's #FridayFlash, A Rude Awakening. He's gone a bit noir in this one, you have been warned!

___________________________

I'm 'Up North' for the first time in ages, delivering a package for Lucien, and it's been a ball-ache of a journey so far. Having to travel by night places a fair few restrictions on a trip of any length, and it doesn't help when the van gets a puncture and I have to spend valuable time changing the wheel in a lay-by, my arse inches away from the traffic in the slow lane. Oh yeah, and it's raining so I'm bloody soaked. 'Triffic.

No Aston for me this trip either, too conspicuous according to Lucien, so here I am, playing at being “white van man,” with my rear end twitching faster than a ship's cat in a barrel every time one of those artics thunders by.

And then there's Plod. Never around when you bloody well need him, which can be a blessing in my line of work, but by God doesn't he always show up at the most inconvenient of moments? Just don't ask to look in the back of the van. No, really. Don't.

Here he comes now, a black rat, a traffic copper. All spit and swagger, tapping his pen on his pad of traffic tickets and moaning something about the van's tinted windows. He goes back to his patrol car, pulls a gadget out of the boot and puts it up against my driver's window. I reckon he can smell a ticket in the offing for the tint on the glass being too dark. As he takes his reading I thumb the button on the key fob in my pocket and the little device Lucien had installed adjusts the tint to just within legal limits. Not too much mind, just enough.

Plod does not look happy. He packs his kit away and I wish him a cheery good evening as I throw the jack onto the passenger seat. Trouble is, now I'm stuck with one of those bloody “space-saver” spares, it'll be like driving on a feckin' ice skate, and I'm limited to 50mph. Bollocks. This is going to put a serious crimp in my evening.

About half an hour later I'm starting to feel peckish so I swing the van into the motorway services' car park. Well hello, what do we have here then?

My headlights splash over a little car tucked away almost out of sight in among the trucks in the HGV parking area. Steamed up windows and rocking like there's a high wind, which there isn't. I hop out of the van and stroll over. Tapping on the passenger window stops the rocking. Stops it dead. There's some scuffling then the door opens a crack. Bugger me, it's the copper from earlier, all red-faced and sweating with his trousers round his ankles, and some tart young enough to be his daughter in the back seat.

She squeaks something unintelligible and flings an arm over her naked breasts while he climbs out and starts blustering, fumbling with his belt. I reach into my back pocket and flash the DI's warrant card at him. That gets his attention. I can see the look in his eyes as he mentally chews over whether or not his career's fucked. It's not a real warrant card, just a little insurance policy Lucien suggested I carry, he has them run up in bulk by some bloke in a lock-up somewhere. It's not brilliant, but it's good enough to fool the copper. I don't give him time to read it properly either, just long enough to register my supposed rank. I keep my finger over the name.

The wedding band on his fingers gives me an “in,” and he's soon on his way, mightily relieved he (a) didn't nick a senior officer earlier in the evening, and (b) that I've agreed, after some persuasion, to say nothing to his Inspector about the position I've just found him in. I did suggest transferring him to the dog section, or was that dogging section? Just my little joke.

He'll have more to worry about than that soon enough I reckon as I climb back into the van's driving seat. As soon as the SOCOs find the girl in the car, her throat ripped out and full of his semen he'll be screwed. Literally I shouldn't wonder, once the old lags get their hands on him. A life sentence on Rule 43, your arse kept firmly against the wall, it's enough to give a bloke the shivers. Silly sod should have used a condom.

My fangs retract as I throw the van into gear and roar out onto the motorway. I can still taste her. Eighteen years old if she was a day and very fresh, like one of those juicy green apples I used to like. Used to.

I'm not going to make it before dawn, so I pull the van off the motorway and manage to get parked up in a quiet spot down some faceless country lane just as the sun's starting to come up. This is going to be tight, I think as I sprint round to the back doors and throw myself inside. I can already feel the heat in my skin as I haul the doors shut. The sunburn's going to hurt like a bastard by the time I wake up.

I chain the doors tight shut behind me. Can't have the package getting loose while I have a kip, and there's no way I'm hunting about the countryside for it, not during daylight at any rate. I'll go up like a Roman Candle if I try that.

Just before I settle down I check the cable ties keeping the woman trussed up in her sleeping bag. She rolls frightened eyes at me and tries to wriggle away, not that she's going anywhere, strung up the way she is like a Christmas turkey.

“It's alright pet, I'm just the driver. You've nothing to fear from me.”

I curl up on the other side of the van and drift off to sleep. No, I have no idea who she is. Pays not to ask, know what I mean? I'm just the driver.

#FridayFlash: A Rude Awakening

2011-02-17T12:00:00.000Z

The pixies are taking a short break, but in their stead here's one from the vaults. I'm planning to have an all-new vampire story for you next Friday too.

___________________________

Kat and I had spent the day hanging round the Theatre Royal’s stage door trying to keep out of London’s bitter winter weather. Luckily we got on well with Joe, the stage doorman, and he’d kept up a steady flow of mugs of tea to ward off the cold. A serial tea drinker, our Joe. Now we were looking for somewhere warm to sleep.

So there we were, round the back of the theatre, sheltering from the stinging sleet which had begun lashing down at dusk, and wondering whether we could bed down among the discarded cardboard in one of the theatre’s big industrial bins when that last mug of tea started to make its presence felt to my bladder.

Diving round the other side of the bin, I went to relieve myself while Kat stayed out of the worst of the sleet storm. I was just tugging my zip down when a figure turned the corner into the alley. All I could see in the flickering light of the single, faulty streetlamp was a tall, thin man in full evening dress, complete with cane, opera cape and a top hat. This was the sort of bloke Joe would have called a “proper toff.”

Kat hissed to me from her side of the bin, ‘You seen that knob over there? Bet he’s got a few quid.’

She winked and, as I zipped up thinking the tea would have to hang on a bit longer, I knew exactly what was going through her mind. At least I thought I did.

Did I tell you about Kat? Willowy little Irish thing in her late teens, all pale skin, flaxen hair and delicious curves. Eyes like a spring morning sky that could melt icebergs, if she was in the mood. And as hard as nails. We first met that summer when we were arrested in a police raid after both taking a wrong turn on the way back from separate spots of petty larceny on Oxford Street. I never said I was a saint.

We’d ended up among a crowd of protesters yelling vociferously about something or other - ban the whale, save the bomb, whatever. By the time we were released from custody we’d become friends and had been looking out for each other ever since.

Anyway, back to the story at hand.

As the man drew level with my side of the bin, I stepped out of the shadows slowly so as not to frighten him too much, just enough, and did my best to look pathetic and needy, with just a hint of menacing. I wasn’t too good at menacing, dressed as I was like an advert for ‘Man at Salvation Army.’

He began turning towards me, then Kat sprang at him from the other side of the bin. I thought we were only going to rough him up a bit, I didn’t know she had a knife till I caught a flash of the blade in the streetlamp’s orange glow.

I suddenly had the uncanny feeling this wasn’t going to end well and started forward to head her off, but I’d only moved a step before the man’s arm shot out and, in a perfectly timed manoeuvre, grabbed Kat by the throat, swung her up off the ground, and I heard a sickening crack as he broke her neck with nothing more than a flick of his wrist.

‘No style,’ he muttered as Kat’s lifeless body landed at his feet.

I registered the shock on her face, saw the knife slide out of her hand, then turned and ran. I must have made it oh, a whole five yards before I felt, rather than saw, the shadow pass me, then suddenly there was an iron band round my throat and my feet were the ones windmilling as I was hoisted into the air.

My heart was hammering in my chest as I dangled like a rag doll in his vicelike grip. I struggled for breath and began to choke, all the while surveyed by the most piercing green eyes I have ever seen, framed in a pale, angular face.

Then he sniffed my face, not the snuffling sniff of a dog, a single long delicate sniff like a chef examining the heady aroma of a rare ingredient and, for reasons I still don’t quite understand, my fear melted away in that instant, replaced by a burning white hot rage and I swung my fist at his face. My clumsy punch connected with his right jaw and he grunted. I winced as a wave of pain radiated up to my wrist from my newly broken knuckles. I’ve never been a fighter.

“Spirit,” he murmured with just a hint of surprise, “I like that.”

I didn’t, my hand was regretting it already.

As his eyes rolled back in his head and his fangs slid into place, a couple of things happened almost simultaneously – I felt my eyes widen to the size of saucers and, as he pulled me close and sank his fangs into the side of my neck, I pissed myself all over his shoes.

Then everything went black.

Now, let me tell you something. The entertainment industry has a lot to answer for as they have, en masse, got it wrong. Very badly wrong. There is nothing even remotely sexy or exciting about waking up in the muck and filth of a London alley, in clothes that haven’t been off your back for a month, and covered in your own urine. Just sayin’.

As Lucien introduced himself and began to explain what had just happened to me, it crossed my mind that this was not how I’d have imagined a vampire’s awakening to be, had I ever thought about it. I was still ruminating on this when Lucien pulled me to my feet, slung his arm affectionately around my shoulders, and together we headed down the alley toward his car.

Was that a speck of my blood at the corner of his mouth?

(Nothing But) Flowers Valentine's Day Anthology Goes Live!

2011-02-14T08:27:00.002Z

All because I can't tell the time (or at least because I got confused between AEST and GMT, sorry!), you get to enjoy my story, Daisy's Café early! It's live right now over at the (Nothing But) Flowers website. I'd appreciate you popping over there and letting me know what you think of it.

Here's the link: Daisy's Café

And if you're on Facebook, why not drop by the (Nothing But) Flowers Book Launch and chat with the writers.

(Nothing But) Flowers Literary Mix-Tape Anthology

2011-02-12T09:00:00.003Z

Valentine's Day is just around the corner, which means it's almost time for the (Nothing But) Flowers Literary Mix-Tape.

Inspired by the lyrics of the classic Talking Heads track of the same name, the anthology features post-apocalyptic love stories from twenty-four talented authors (including yours truly) and goes live over at the (Nothing But) Flowers website from 7pm (GMT) on Monday, 14th February. The anthology will also be available to purchase as an e-book and as a print paperback.

My story, Daisy's Café is a tale of young love set against the backdrop of a collapsed society. There are some tough choices to be made, with happiness far from assured. To find out more, make sure you tune in at 8pm (GMT) on Monday, 14th February for my story.

From the (nothing But) Flowers website:

The second Literary Mix Tape, and the first for 2011 is “Nothing But Flowers: Tales of Post Apocalyptic Love”. The stories explore the complexities and challenges of love in a post apocalyptic landscape. Inspired by the Talking Heads song of the same name, the anthology will go live at 9am (AEST) on the 14th February and run online for 24 hours. The anthology will also be available for purchase as an eBook and a paperback.

All proceeds from the sale of the anthology will go to the Queensland Premier’s Disaster Fund to assist with the rebuilding of Queensland communities after the worst floods on record.

The (Nothing But) Flowers anthology features stories from: Sam Adamson, Jim Bronyaur, Jen Brubacher, Chris Chartrand, Kil Conor, Rebecca Dobbie, Annie Evett, Susan May James, Emma Kerry, Lily Mulholland, Dan Powell, Icy Sedgwick, Benjamin Solah, Graham Storrs, Adam Byatt, Jason Coggins, Janette Dalgleish, Rob Diaz, Rebecca Emin, Laura Eno, PJ Kaiser, Maria Kelly, Emma Newman and Dale C Roe (USA). Editor Jodi Cleghorn is contributing a bonus story only available to purchasers of the e-book and paperback.

For more details, and to read the stories as they go live on Valentine's Day, please stop by the (Nothing But) Flowers website, and if you happen to be on Facebook, don't forget to stop by the (Nothing But) Flowers Facebook page and say hello.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #36: Reconstruction

2011-02-10T21:00:00.001Z

This is episode 36 of my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories and would like to read from the beginning, or if you've missed an episode, you can find a full index of the episodes here.

___________________________

Twinkle buzzed low over the river, the weight of The Book forcing her dangerously close to the fast-flowing water. Up ahead she could see the fairy fortress swathed in scaffolding, a myriad of workers scrambling about on it like so many tiny ants. The ache in her wings forced Twinkle to land on the riverbank, and from there she followed the circuitous land route up the cliffs to the fortress' main gate.

Once past the sentries, Twinkle found herself in the familiar surroundings of the courtyard, familiar but yet different since the collapse of the fortress wall. Piles of dressed stones lay everywhere, jockeying for position alongside heaps of rubble, tools and building supplies, through which were sorting several creatures, apparently gnomes. Twinkle hailed the nearest one.

'Well met, Master Gnome. How goes the re-building?'

The gnome ignored her, so Twinkle strode closer. The nearer she got, the more uneasy she felt. There was something odd about the way the gnome kept scratching his beard, as though he was uncomfortable wearing it. And his tunic did not seem to fit properly either, bunching up around his middle so that he had to re-adjust it every few minutes. It was almost as though, Twinkle thought, he was straightening a lumpy stomach rather than his tunic. She was on the point of calling out to the gnome again when a soft cough sounded behind her.

'M'lady,' said Oberon, 'How nice to see you.'

'Captain Plan...'

Oberon rolled his eyes.

'Oh, sorry,' said Twinkle, 'I forgot. My Lord Oberon.' She bowed.

Oberon waved away her apology.

'Think nothing of it, M'lady. There are times when I am addressed with my new title that I think my previous Lord is standing right behind me. I just can't shake that feeling.'

'Is there any news of my father?'

'No, M'lady. I have my agents abroad in both this realm and the other, but there's not been a word of your father since his banishment.'

Twinkle sighed. 'No matter. I presume my mother is in her chamber?'

'Yes, M'lady. I have managed to,' he coughed, 'Escape for a few hours to supervise the building work.'

Nodding to Oberon, Twinkle set off across the coutryard in the direction of the royal chambers. Half way there she paused, half turning back.

'My Lord, is there something strange about the gnomish builders?'

'I have decided that is something best left well alone, as long as the work is progressing.'

Twinkle nodded, turned and disappeared through the doorway to her mother's chamber.

* * *

Titania lay wrapped her blankets and snoring like a hog when Twinkle arrived. Polite enquiries as to the state of her mother's wakefullness were met with snorts and grunts, so Twinkle was forced to give Titania a sharp poke to the shoulder in order to elicit a response.

'Ugh? What? Who is it?' Titania slitted open an eye.

'It is I, Mother...'

'Who?'

'Twinkle,' Twinkle sighed. 'Your daughter.'

'Whaddya want, daughter?'

'I have The Book.'

Titania sat bolt upright in her bed, eyes wide, a grin spreading from ear to ear. Her tousled bed-hair gave her the appearance of a maniacal hedgehog. Twinkle stifled a giggle.

'You have it?!'

Twinkle nodded, still fighting to keep a straight face.

'You have it!' Titania crowed. 'We're saved! Let me see it, let me see it.'

She snatched The Book from Twinkle's outstretched hands and held it up to a shaft of sunlight which fell across the bed from an open window. Sunlight draped the battered leather cover and Titania laughed. It was a high-pitched, squeaking laugh that made Twinkle wince.

'Perhaps now you will give me leave to go and find my father?'

'Your what? Who?' muttered Titania. 'Oh, him. Yes, yes, I suppose so. Off you go.' She waved Twinkle away.

* * *

Twinkle was halfway across the courtyard when a piercing shriek rent the air. Since it emanated from Titania's window, Twinkle could only presume her Mother had discovered she lacked the key required to open The Book.

Oberon winced as Twinkle approached.

'Is that scream anything I'm going to need to deal with, M'lady?' he asked.

'Hopefully not,' said Twinkle, 'And will you stop calling me M'lady?! My mother has just discovered that when she bid me bring her The Book I took her precisely at her word. She never mentioned the key.'

'Ah.'

'She has however, finally given me permission to go in search of my father. If she wants the key, she's just going to have to wait until I have found him, isn't she?' Twinkle winked.

'Meanwhile, I shall be the one stuck here on the receiving end of your mother's temper. I can understand why your father took to the bottle.'

'For that I apologise. You were always kind to me while I was growing up. You don't really deserve this. I will try to return quickly, but for now I must fly lest my mother has the chance to change her mind. That will be difficult though, I had her scribe make an official note of her permission.'

'It's alright.' Oberon hugged her. 'Now, away with you while you still can.'

As Twinkle swooped low over the fortress wall, Oberon once again turned his attention to the gnomish builders.

'We don't employ Goblins, my arse,' he muttered as a nearby builder's false beard fell off at his feet.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #35: The Key To It All

2011-02-03T21:00:00.000Z

This is episode 35 of my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, or have missed an episode, you can find a full index of the episodes here.

___________________________

Gardner's enjoyment of his snack was spoiled by something sharp poking him on the end of his nose. Swivelling his eyes, Gardner went cross-eyed to discover the source of the prodding was the tip of Pogmorton's wand, which now hovered dangerously close to his left nostril.

'Leave it,' said Pogmorton.

'I...err...umm.'

'You remember what happened the last time time you messed with a pixie. The night we first met, as I recall?'

'Yesh,' mumbled Gardner, his mouth still full of Twinkle's neck.

'Then put the fairy down.'

Gardner released his grip on Twinkle's neck and shuffled reluctantly backwards, his eyes still focused on Pogmorton's wand.

There's something not quite right about that pixie, Gardner thought, he's never been quite right since he came back.

Pogmorton extended a hand and pulled Twinkle to her feet.

'Thank you,' said Twinkle quietly.

'Don't thank me yet. If anything happens to Rushalka, I'll make you wish you'd never been born. Now, get down those stairs.'

Pushing Twinkle before him, Pogmorton made his way through the trapdoor back into the basement. As they reached Swazzle's hut, Pogmorton shoved Twinkle onto the front step.

'Wait here, I'll get The Book.'

As he walked away, Pogmorton tossed an angry look back at her, which yapped and ran around her feet snarling.

'If you move, it'll shred your wings,' Pogmorton offered by way of an explanation.

Twinkle visibly paled.

* * *

Creeping silently through the small door next to Rev Beresford's fireplace, Pogmorton emerged into the priest's study. The vault he had created the night he died hung in the air near the sofa. Pogmorton scrambled onto the arm of the sofa, pulled out his wand and began a ritual of immense complexity that involved many intricate wand gestures.

As the ritual reached its conclusion, Jamieson appeared from behind the sofa carrying a dustpan and brush, just in time for Pogmorton to shout, 'Catch!'

The Book winded Jamieson as it landed on him, but what upset him more was the fairy hand that landed full in his face, dripping blood down the front of his second best tunic. Jamieson let out a shriek, shook the appendage from his face and, glaring at Pogmorton, vanished.

Pogmorton grabbed The Book and Twinkle's hand and dashed back to the basement, where he found Twinkle exactly where he'd left her, still guarded by the angry look. He threw Twinkle her hand.

'Antidote. Now.'

'Alright, alright, but call that thing off first.' Twinkle gestured towards the angry look.

Pogmorton let out a low whistle and the angry look's ears pricked up. It turned and scampered towards him, climbed the front of his clothes and re-attached itself to his face.

'Get brewing that antidote.' Pogmorton pushed Twinkle ahead of him into Swazzle's hut and stood over her while she set about brewing. By the time the antidote was ready, Rushalka was wreathed in sweat and clawing at her bedclothes, gasping for water. She recoiled visibly at the sight of Twinkle when the fairy approached her bed, and it fell to Pogmorton to lift the cup to his sister's mouth. Rushalka greedily sucked down every drop then collapsed back against her pillows.

After a few moments a warm glow seemed to settle about Rushalka, the sweat evaporated from her brow and her breathing eased.

'She'll be alright now,' reassured Twinkle.

'She'd better be.'

* * *

Rushalka was recovering nicely as Pogmorton escorted Twinkle out through the air brick onto Goddess Rising's back step.

'Here's The Book.' He handed it over. 'Now piss off.'

Twinkle took to the air, flapping furiously to gain height under the additional heavy weight of The Book, and buzzed low over the back yard wall just as Swazzle and the Draig returned from their stroll.

'Was that Twinkle I just saw leaving?' said Swazzle as the Draig nuzzled Pogmorton's leg.

'Yup. I had to give her The Book.'

Swazzle was aghast.

'She poisoned Rushalka. I had to.'

'But, but...'

'It's alright though,' there was a gleam in Pogmorton's eye as he fished around in his pocket before holding up a small spherical object. 'She can't do a thing with it. She's bollocks'd 'cos I've still got the key.'

Swazzle recognised the walnut shell they had appropriated from Simeon some weeks previously. A smile began to twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Peals of pixie laughter rent the night air, the Draig lolloping in happy circles at their feet.

'You do realise she'll be back?' said Swazzle between sniggers.

'Of course she will.' Pogmorton dabbed tears of laughter with his handkerchief. 'And when she does, I will kill her.'

One look into Pogmorton's eyes left Swazzle in absolutely no doubt he meant it.

'No-one hurts my sister and lives.'

Splintered Lands - Ap Garriyon Part 1

2011-02-02T11:01:00.001Z

I am thrilled to have been invited to be a part of a new collaborative fantasy writing project, Splintered Lands. The first part of my story Ap Garriyon is up now over at the Splintered Lands site.

Ap Garriyon opens with a troop of the Knights Of The Broken Wheel on a sensitive mission high in the Shelvasha Mountains, a particularly dangerous part of the Splintered Lands. Here's a taster of the story:

Troop Captain Sir Merarus McNaer shifted uneasily in his saddle. His horse's constant fidgeting did nothing to ease his nerves as the morning mist billowed around him, an insulating blanket almost completely opaque this high in the mountains. Speaking quietly to the animal, McNaer stroked its neck, the horse whickering softly in response.

McNaer had always been an early riser, so it made sense he should stand dawn sentry while his troop struck camp. Even though he knew their camp lay not a hundred yards distant, were it not for the occasional muffled clank of armour or a whinny from one of the horses, McNaer could easily have believed he was completely alone in one of the most dangerous places in the republic...

To read the rest, and to explore the Splintered Lands, please go here.

For further information about the Knights Of The Broken Wheel, please go here, and if you happen to be on Twitter, keep an eye out for the #SplinteredLands hashtag for more updates on the project.

I Guess That Makes Me An Author, Right?

2011-02-01T08:11:00.002Z

Today you'll find me over at Write Anything guest posting about my first year as a writer. Hop on over to read my rags to, well...still rags but with a lot more words under my belt, story.

Are there similarities between your writer's story and mine? Am I doing it totally wrong? Please spare me a minute or two to leave a comment and let me know. Thanks.

My guest post is here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #34: Twinkle in the Pixies' Den

2011-01-20T21:00:00.001Z

This is episode 34 of my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, or have missed an episode, you can find a full index of the episodes here.

___________________________

Twinkle examined the air brick in minute detail but there appeared to be no opening mechanism, magical or otherwise that she could find. She pulled it, pushed it, swore under her breath at it, but the brick wouldn't budge. She was on the point of trying a particularly explosive kind of magic when the brick swung open and Twinkle only just had time to dive into the shadows.

Salkeld emerged, whistling to himself as he upended a rubbish bin off the back step. Twinkle took the opportunity to slip silently inside. Salkeld was sure he'd caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, but when he swung round he found himself alone. He shrugged and ducked back inside, tapping the lock with his wand and hearing a reassuring “click” in response. Salkeld sauntered back up the passage towards the basement.

Keeping to the shadows, Twinkle crept into the basement. She had seen Salkeld lock the door behind him and her throat tightened with the knowledge she was going to need help to get out again.

* * *

Upstairs in the shop, Gardner was pacing. Crowley leafed through yet another ancient tome, desperately searching for a method by which he could re-create the ritual to restore his human form. Gardner's pacing was beginning to get on his nerves.

'For goodness sake! Will you stop that?'

'Eh? What?' replied the cat, still pacing.

'You're wearing a hole in the bloody carpet! How am I meant to concentrate?'

'But I'm hungry,' wailed Gardner. 'I always pace when I'm hungry.'

Crowley rolled his eyes. 'You were fed not three hours' ago. Where do you put it all?'

'It's not my fault I have a fast metabolism.'

'Ha! Fast metabolism? Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? The only thing fast about you is the speed with which you clear your dish. Now do me a favour, would you?'

'What?'

'Sod off and pace somewhere else so I can concentrate.'

Grumbling, Gardner set off to pace in the corridor instead. Crowley sighed, and turned back to his book.

* * *

Twinkle eased open the door to Swazzle's hut, marvelling as she did so at the shoddy workmanship of Pixie construction. Slipping inside, she pulled a small pouch from her clothing and sprinkled its contents liberally into the pottery cup next to Rushalka's bed.

'Hey, what are you...,' murmured a sleepy voice behind her.

Her heart hammering, Twinkle spun round to find Pogmorton sitting on the edge of his bed, staring bleary-eyed at her. She was on him before he could finish the sentence, the tip of a wicked looking dagger held to his throat. Pogmorton's Adam's apple wobbled up and down in an attempt to avoid the tip of the blade.

'Not another word,' hissed Twinkle, 'Or I'll open you from ear to ear.'

Pogmorton nodded gingerly.

'I must talk to you about The Book. But not here. Somewhere private. Let's go.'

Motioning with the dagger, Twinkle followed Pogmorton outside.

'The shop,' said Pogmorton keeping his voice low. 'It should be nice and quiet up there.'

Good idea, thought Twinkle. And closer to an escape route.

'Lead the way.'

Pogmorton, dressed in his nightshirt, lead the way over to the stairs, his curly-toed slippers slapping against the floorboards as he walked. Every footstep sounded to Twinkle like a drum being struck. She wondered how on earth Pogmorton hadn't wakened the whole basement.

'It's this way,' whispered Pogmorton, absently scratching his behind and yawning.

Twinkle shuddered, trying not to think what lay under the nightshirt as they reached the stairs. Soon they were at the trapdoor, which swung open a few inches to Pogmorton's touch and they clambered through the gap into the shop.

'Evenin' Pogmorton. Who's your friend?'

Twinkle was sure her heart would burst as she desperately scanned the shop for the source of the voice.

'Evening, Master Crowley,' replied Pogmorton as Twinkle caught sight of the large, grey rat on the shop counter.

Twinkle's mouth opened and closed, the rat seemed to be, no, it couldn't be. It was, the rat was reading a book.

'Allow me to introduce Mistress Twinkle, a fairy of my,' Pogmorton paused, fixing Twinkle with a steely gaze. 'Acquaintance. She needs to speak to me in private, apparently.'

'Oh, don't mind me,' replied Crowley, 'Once I get my nose, err...snout in a good book, I'm dead to the world. You carry on. Pretend I'm not here.'

'Right then,' said Pogmorton, turning to face Twinkle. 'What's all this about The Book?' He wiggled his fingers in the air to emphasise “The Book.”

'It's a long story,' Twinkle began. She caught sight of Pogmorton's expression. 'But I'll keep it short,' she added, 'Under the circumstances. The Book contains a very old and complex ritual which, if performed correctly...,' Twinkle bit her lip.

'Go on.'

'Which if performed correctly, has the power to rob my people of their magic and power of flight. We, the fairy kingdom that is, need to destroy The Book, but there's a snag. You are the pixie who sealed The Book in its vortex, so only you can break the enchantment and retrieve it.'

Pogmorton did not look convinced.

'My right hand is in there too and I'd quite like it back,' she added with a weak smile, glancing at the crystal appendage poking from the right sleeve of her tunic.

'I seem to remember, and correct me if I'm wrong here, dying to stop you getting your hands on The Book,' Pogmorton said flatly. 'Why on earth should I help you get it now?'

Twinkle's eyes gleamed. 'If you want the antidote to the poison I slipped into Rushalka's cup, you'll help me. The spell of thirst I placed on her should be working just about,' Twinkle paused, 'now. She'll wake desperate for a drink. And before you get any bright ideas, it is a formula of my own invention, and only I have access to the antido...'

The rest of Twinkle's sentence was cut short as she pitched forward with a grunt, a large cat's paw planted firmly in the middle of her back.

'Oooh, Pogmorton! You brought me a snack.' Gardner smiled. 'You're too kind,' he mumbled as he clamped his jaws to the back of Twinkle's neck.

'Nooooooooooooo!' wailed Pogmorton.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #33: Of Draigs and Gnomish Builders

2011-01-13T21:00:00.003Z

This is episode 33 of my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, or have missed an episode, you can find a full index of the episodes here.

___________________________

The draig paced inside its cage. Swazzle had been gone for hours and the draig was hungry again. The fortnight since Christmas had been a period of frenzied activity in the basement of Goddess Rising, activity the draig had not been invited to help with. It had spent much of its time cooped up in its cage and was beginning to resent this new arrangement.

If it could have asked him, the draig would have known how guilty Swazzle felt at keeping it locked up. His nocturnal wanderings took him farther and farther afield in search of this and that for Botchett, patrolling for any signs of fairy activity or procuring enough food for the draig. Privately Swazzle thought the draig was comfort eating. He was also convinced that, unless something could be done soon, it was only a matter of time until the local butchers reported the continuing thefts of sausages to the Big Folk's Police.

Pogmorton had proved a poor companion for the draig. Still weak from his ordeal, he spent much of his time in bed, or speaking in hushed tones with Rhusalka when she came to visit. The draig had tried to engage him in play, earning itself a smack on the snout when it snapped playfully at Pogmorton through the bars of its cage.

It was late in the evening when Swazzle arrived home, shaking the rain from his cloak as he stamped mud off his boots on the doormat.

'Blimey! It's pissing down out there,' he announced to the room in general.

Pogmorton opened a bleary eye. 'Eh? What?'

'I said it's raining. Absolutely chucking it down.' Swazzle dug in his satchel, producing a package wrapped in butcher's paper. He strode over to the draig's cage. 'Here you go, lad. No sausages tonight I'm afraid, but I've brought you a rabbit. I'll take you out for a walk later.'

The draig fell upon its meal, the taste of rabbit a welcome change from pork sausage. The draig had been thinking you could have too much of a good thing. The endless diet of sausages had begun to give it wind, and it didn't think Swazzle appreciated the sudden vents of fiery gas through the door of its cage at all hours of the day and night. In seconds the rabbit had been devoured and the draig sat, swishing its tail in front of the cage door.

'That thing eats like a unicorn,' mumbled Pogmorton.

Swazzle chuckled softly. 'Aye, it has quite an appetite and no mistake.' He turned to the draig, 'Come on then, lad. Let's go and have a wander.' Swazzle opened the cage door, deftly attaching the draig's lead as it attempted the dash past him, and waved to Pogmorton as he was dragged out the door.

* * *

Oberon had serious misgivings about the two gnomes as they clambered over the ruins of the fairy fortress, tape measures in hand, pausing now and then to scribble in small notebooks and suck their teeth. After an hour of such treatment, Oberon could stand the suspense no more and bellowed at the pair to tell him what was going on.

The gnomes trotted over deep in conversation, the fatter one holding up his pencil against Oberon's question while he concluded his conference. Sensing Oberon was about to explode, the fatter gnome reached into his waistcoat pocket and handed over a business card, which read: Messrs Flaecem & Scarpa, Structural Engineers. Oberon was almost sure he caught another line of text swim into view as the card was handed over: Fortress renovations a speciality.

'Hmmm,' considered Oberon.

'We can start tomorrow,' piped up the smaller gnome.

'I dunno.'

'We're very reasonable,' reassured the larger gnome.

'You don't employ goblins?'

The gnomes consulted. 'Nope, only gnomes,' they replied in unison. Oberon noticed the smaller gnome writing something in his book. Attempting to read it upside down, Oberon was sure he saw the words “false beards” before the gnome snapped the book shut and beamed a most disarming smile at him.

'I suppose it would avoid the whole tendering process,' Oberon mused, stroking his chin, 'And you reckon you can begin work tomorrow?'

'At first light,' chorused the gnomes.

'Oh, all right then. You're hired.'

'Champion,' said the larger gnome.

'See you in the morning,' said the smaller one.

It suddenly occurred to Oberon that he ought to get a price before the work started, but when he shouted down the castle wall, which the gnomes were scaling with alarming speed, they didn't appear to hear him. Oberon shrugged and walked back to the quarters he now shared with Titania. I mean, what could possibly go wrong with gnomish builders, he wondered.

* * *

Twinkle watched from her vantage point on the roof of Goddess Rising as Swazzle swung the air brick open and climbed out into the night, the draig close on his heels. Picking his way carefully between the piles of rubbish in the back yard Swazzle and his pet soon vanished over the top of the back yard wall.

Rubbing her hands, Twinkle beamed. So that was the way into the basement, she thought. Her ten day vigil behind the chimneypot had finally born fruit. She thought as she crept towards the edge of the roof, that she would not miss sharing the roof with the feral pigeons who seemed to take great exception to her presence. Brushing the last of their droppings from her cloak, Twinkle dropped silently over the edge, gliding down to the back step.

She made straight for the air brick, wondering how on earth she was going to get it open.

100 Stories for Queensland

2011-01-12T09:11:00.005Z

You may have seen news reports of the flooding in Queensland, Australia in the media over the past few days. You may be wondering if there is anything you can do to help. Well, dear reader, there is.

You can of course donate money to one of the organisations helping in the area however, there is another way. 100 Stories for Queensland is a new charity anthology seeking stories to put together into a book to raise funds for victims of the Queensland flooding. If you're a writer please, please consider donating a story, details of the submissions procedure can be found here.

But I'm not a writer, what can I do? Do you read, or know someone who reads? Yes? Then you can help too by buying a copy of the anthology when it's published (it is hoped the book will be available for sale in around six weeks), more details about when and where you can buy it as I get them.

If you're on Facebook, please "Like" 100 Stories for Queensland's page and keep up to date with developments on this project. If you're on Twitter, keep an eye on the #100storiesforqld hashtag, and if you're on both, do both!

I'll close with a heartfelt appeal from Jodi Cleghorn, Brisbane based writer, editor and Co-owner of eMergent Publishing. Jodi also happens to be a mate of mine and, along with Trevor Belshaw, who's post about this project can be found here, is one of the team behind 100 Stories for Queensland. I'll hand you over to Jodi now, please spare her a couple of minutes of your time. Thank you.

Listen!

photo courtesy of Angus Veitch

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories Christmas Special: The Cleaner

2010-12-23T21:00:00.001Z

This is the Christmas episode of my ongoing web serial, The UCF Stories, which I update weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, or have missed an episode, you can find a full index of the episodes here.

___________________________

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin...

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through Goddess Rising, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Crowley however, was still up, having promised himself another chapter of A Guide to Inner Transformation before bed. And so it was that the only creature awake when the cleaner came knocking was a rather large, grey rat.

A pair of rubber-soled shoes landed with scarcely a sound on the kitchen lino. The cleaner paused for a moment, removing his balaclava to wipe perspiration from his face with a black handkerchief. A spare little man, the cleaner had the sort of face that could lead to a legitimate charge of “sneaking” even while sat in an armchair drinking tea. The sort of person for whom close-fitting black clothing had been specifically designed, despite the discomfort writ large upon his face as he adjusted his trousers.

Setting his backpack down carefully on the kitchen table, the cleaner producing a net, a large sack and a pair of what appeared to be army surplus night vision goggles festooned with extra lenses. He was particularly proud of the goggles, his own design, each of the lenses enchanted to see through a different type of magic.

Replacing the balaclava, the cleaner pulled on the goggles, thumbing the power switch. His vision swam for a second until the goggles came online, the kitchen now a fuzzy, speckled green. He crept towards the door.

* * *

Crowley almost squeaked with excitement. In that last chapter he had finally found what he was looking for. It was all so ridiculously simple, he thought, slapping his paw to his forehead. Crowley began to murmur a chant.

* * *

Aveena was never quite sure afterwards whether the sound of Crowley's book falling off the sales counter, or the cleaner stepping on the squeaky floorboard in the passage woke her. She sprang from her makeshift bed in Goddess Rising's stockroom poised for action and crept to the door. Slowly pulling the door open just a little, she glimpsed a particularly disagreeable aura padding slowly into the shop. Aveena shrugged, ink running into her hand until she was holding a wickedly sharp knife before opening the door and creeping out into the passage.

* * *

Sweat matting the fur of his snout, Crowley continued to chant. He felt decidedly strange, as though something grew inside him. It was becoming increasingly difficult to concentrate but he persevered, the book suggested he only had one shot at this.

With a flash of eerie blue light, Crowley's rat skin split from snout to tail, a grey cloud blossoming out into the shop. Writhing, the cloud expanded upwards as it coalesced into a roughly humanoid shape.

The eerie blue light played havoc with the cleaner's night vision goggles. He was fumbling with the settings when he heard a man's triumphant shout. Clawing the goggles from his face, the cleaner stared bewildered at the bald, portly man standing naked before him in the shop. The cleaner was sure he hadn't been there a few seconds earlier.

'At last!' roared Crowley.

Phut, phut. The cleaner's silenced pistol spat twice, the bullets catching Crowley neatly in the heart.

Crowley's body slammed into the lino, his outstretched arm pulling a stack of books from the counter as he fell.

The cleaner sucked in lungfuls of air to ease the trembling. He was still wondering where the man had appeared from so suddenly when Aveena slipped the knife between his ribs.

* * *

'Nay laddie, I have no clue who he is,' said Jamieson pulling the balaclava from the body leaking all over the shop floor.

Swazzle was none the wiser now he could see the man's face, though he almost swallowed his tongue when Botchett exclaimed, 'By the gods, it's Nick!'

Swazzle, Pogmorton, Jamieson and Aveena all looked expectantly at Botchett.

'Allow me to present Nick Christmas,' Botchett said sheepishly, 'an elf formerly in the employ of a certain Mr. N. Claus, like.'

'An elf?' chorused the Pixies, Jamieson and Aveena.

'Elves are a myth,' said Swazzle.

'Or ith it juth the way they walk?' sniggered Pogmorton.

'No, really, an elf.' Botchett lifted up Nick's hair, revealing a pointed ear.

'Bloody hell!' exclaimed Aveena.

'Anybody got something I can collect the blood in?' asked Jamieson, eyeing the puddle in which Nick lay. 'Elf blood's worth a fortune if,' he coughed, 'you know the right people.'

Further discussion was cut short when there arose from outside such a clatter. The assembled company ran down the passage, throwing open the back door to find a large red sleigh complete with nine reindeer neatly shoehorned into Goddess Rising's back yard. A large man in a fur trimmed red suit clambered laboriously from the driving seat.

'Hello Noel!' shouted Botchett, waving. 'How are you, bonny lad?'

'Canny for a young 'un, Botchett!' replied Santa, 'How's yersel?'

'Can't grumble, like. By the way, how's the sleigh running? My VTOL system for the reindeer working out alright?'

That explained the panniers strapped to the reindeer's sides, thought Swazzle.

'Canny, man, very canny. I'd never have got it in here without that reverse thrust option. Glad I let you talk me into it.' Santa beamed.

'Howay in then, have a glass of summat,' said Botchett, 'then perhaps you can help us out with a little problem.'

'Problem?' Santa waddled towards the door, a sack dangling over his shoulder. As he stepped through the door Santa caught sight of the elf's body. 'Nick bloody Christmas!'

'We were wondering if you might have any ideas what to do with him, like?'

'Do with him?' bellowed Santa, 'Do with him?' He kicked Nick soundly in the ribs. 'I'll feed the bugger to me pigs, that's what I'll do with him.'

'Don't ask, like' whispered Botchett as Swazzle opened his mouth. Swazzle shut his mouth.

* * *

Suitably fortified by Mistress Botchett's Midwinter Spiced Sloe Gin, Santa threw the elf's body into the sleigh. Botchett stood with his arm round his wife's shoulders on the back step with the Pixies and Aveena, each clutching a small neatly-wrapped gift from Santa's sack.

'No peeking mind,' shouted Santa with a wave as the sleigh wheezed into life, 'or they'll turn into coal and sticks.' He winked, pulling on a red leather flying helmet and goggles while the steam pressure rose. The reindeer pawed the ground as steam ran along the pipes to their panniers.

A light winked green on the dashboard and Santa flicked the reins.

'Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On Cupid! On, Donner and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!' He winked at Botchett, shouting over the roar of the sleigh's engines, 'They love that bit!'

As the sleigh began to rise slowly into the air, steam blasting from the turbines in the reindeer's panniers Santa yelled, 'Rudolph! The beacon!'

A red glow sprang from the nose of the lead reindeer as the sleigh banked to the right and shot into the night sky.

* * *

Crowley moaned softly. Opening an eye, he put a paw to his head, wincing as he felt the lump on the back of his skull. That was one hell of a dream, he thought. Feeling something sticky on his fur, Crowley examined his hand, for a moment more curious about the pads and claws than the drying blood covering his palm. Realisation dawned as he gazed past his paw to the furry body, tail limp against the cold lino.

'Bollocks!' muttered Crowley.

___________________________

Thanks very much for reading. Now, if you fancy something a little darker, may I respectfully point you in the direction of my Deck The Halls story, 'Tis the Season to be Jolly. Consider it my Christmas present to you, dear reader.

to one and all!

Deck The Halls

2010-12-23T12:08:00.005Z

Thanks to the wonderfully talented Jodi Cleghorn, co-owner of eMergent Publishing, my story "Tis the Season to be Jolly" is to appear as part of Jodi's Deck The Halls Christmas literary mix tape project.

Inspired by the lyrics of that old Christmas favourite, "Deck the Halls," twenty short stories from twenty di fferent authors will premiere, one an hour, on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, beginning with the first story at 6pm GMT (10am PST) on Christmas Eve.

The story release timetable for Deck The Halls is here.

Don't panic if you can't be there for them all, the whole collection will be released as a free ebook shortly. There's also been talk of a charity paperback version to be published next year, more information as I get it...

In the meantime, Deck The Halls has a Facebook page, so sign up now and you'll get project updates as they happen.

Thanks must also go to Icy Sedgwick for producing the fabulous cover for Deck The Halls. Icy has a story in Deck The Halls too.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #32: Extraction

2010-12-16T21:00:00.000Z

This is episode 32 of my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, or have missed an episode, you can find a full index of the episodes here.

___________________________

Bishop Barclay's visit provoked much debate among the basement residents, the general consensus being the Bishop hadn't noticed anything amiss. Even so, a lot of surreptitious packing took place that night amid much shushing in case the neighbours heard. The neighbours were, of course, engaged in much the same activity. This included Swazzle, who was shoving the last of his belongings into a bag when knocking rattled his front door.

'Who is it?'

The muffled response made Swazzle sigh as he went to open then door.

A group of rather shifty looking Goblins crowded around the doorstep, behind them a large cage teetered on top of a child's go-cart. One of the Goblins shoved its way to the front of the group.

'Cage,' it growled. 'For dragon. We hook up?'

Swazzle recognised the voice as belonging to the Balkan Goblin he'd commissioned to construct the draig's kennel and, despite some misgivings about having Goblins in his quarters, invited them in.

'No fit,' announced the Goblin after much huffing and puffing. 'We take door off.'

Before Swazzle had a chance to object the Goblins set to work and shortly afterwards Swazzle's front door and much of the front wall of his hut lay neatly stacked in the street. As the cage slid in through the widened gap, a familiar voice called from outside.

'Got the builders in, Captain?'

'Not exactly, Salkeld. It's your mates delivering the draig's new kennel.'

'Ohh, champion! You want me to let Master Botchett know?'

'Tell him I'll be over later for the draig,' replied Swazzle, distracted by the sound of sawing wood. He swung round to find a pyramid of Goblins supporting one of their number who sawed a hole in his ceiling.

'For gas pipe,' a Goblin growled in response to Swazzle's expression. 'No gas, no fire. Unhappy dragon.'

Swazzle gestured at them to continue, wondering idly how long this job was likely to take.

* * *

Botchett was trying to enjoy his pipe when Salkeld stuck his head round the door. After a few seconds his eyes alighted on Botchett, sitting scrunched up on a stool in the corner furthest from the stove, his eyes fixed on the scaly tail dangling from the firebox.

'Good evening Master Botchet. Captain Swazzle asked me to let you know he'll be collecting the draig shortly.'

'And not a moment too soon. That thing's eating me out of house and home, like.' Mistress Botchett appeared in the pantry doorway. 'The children are terrified to leave their room for fear of being eaten, and he,' she stuck a thumb in Botchett's direction, 'is about as much use as a chocolate teapot.'

'Now listen here, bonny lass,' began Botchett.

'Well you are. You've done nowt but sit in the corner since yesterday, like.'

Salkeld excused himself and set off in the direction of the hospital to visit Pogmorton, relieved to be putting distance between himself and the Botchett's “domestic.”

* * *

Swazzle was a little wary of leaving the Goblins to finish off unsupervised, they assured him they'd tidy up after themselves and put the cage fire on for his return as they bundled him out the door. Reluctantly he set off up the street, arriving outside Botchett's home in time to hear crockery smashing. Fearing the draig had gone on the rampage, Swazzle dived through the door right into the path of the bowl Mistress Botchett had launched at her husband.

'Ow!' wailed Swazzle as the bowl caught him full in the face.

'Oh, sorry kidda.' Mistress Botchett's hand flew to her mouth as she bustled over to make sure Swazzle wasn't injured. The floor around Botchett's stool was peppered with crockery fragments.

Swazzle rubbed his nose ruefully. 'I've come to collect the draig.'

'About time, bonny lad,' called Botchett, brushing the remains of a plate from his lap.

'Thank you, thank you,' Mistress Botchett clapped him on the back. 'I don't know what would have happened if we'd had to keep it here for much longer, like'

'We'd have run out of plates for one thing,' muttered Botchett, thinking better of adding anything further in response to his wife's venomous look.

'Err, any idea how I'm going to get it to come out?'

'You'll need a stout collar and lead,' said Botchett, 'and summat to tempt it out, like.'

Swazzle held up the lead and collar the Goblins had pressed into his hand as they'd shoved him out of his house.

'Aye, that ought to do. Have we got any of those sausages left Mother?'

'No, and well you know it! You could try a bit of ham though.' Mistress Botchett proffered a thick slice of her home-baked gammon.

Three hours later and Swazzle had resorted to wearing one of Botchett's shoulder-length Wyrm catching gauntlets and was rummaging about up to the elbow in the firebox, thankful the glove was both heat and teeth proof.

The draig was proving a wily customer, but eventually Swazzle managed to secure the collar round the beast's neck and drag it out onto the kitchen floor. The draig tumbled from the firebox in a shower of hot embers and stood glowering at it's new master, the expression on its face leaving Swazzle in absolutely no doubt how it felt about being forced to leave its nest.

The Botchetts stood silently in the corner of the kitchen as Swazzle coaxed the draig towards the door, only rushing forward to beat out their smouldering rug once the pair had finally left.

* * *

Getting the draig into its new kennel proved easier than Swazzle thought. Presumably the draig was cold from its short walk and scampered straight into its new cage, snuggling down in the fire and falling straight to sleep.

Swazzle took a few moments to check on the state of his home, but it appeared the Goblins had been true to their word, leaving the place as they'd found it. Not until the early hours when Swazzle was woken by a freezing draught coming in under the bottom of the badly re-fitted front wall did he consider more than a cursory glance at the Goblins' handiwork might have been an idea.

'Bloody Goblin builders,' he muttered, pulling the blankets over his head.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #31: Infestation

2010-12-09T21:00:00.000Z

This is episode 31 of my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, or have missed an episode, you can find a full index of the episodes here.

___________________________

Bishop Barclay watched the entirety of Rev Beresford's video footage in silence, his eyes glued to the TV screen. When Pogmorton's hand emerged from the cauldron he jumped, rattling his tea cup, and smiled apologetically at Rev Beresford. Only when the video had finished did he speak.

'Very interesting, Austin. I think we may be able to use this witch.' The bishop glanced over his shoulder at the imperfection hanging in the air. 'There's the Book for a start.'

'I am not sure she will be able to help us with that, Your Grace.'

'Why ever not, my dear man?!'

'She said something about only the one who wove the original enchantment being able to dispel it...'

'In that case,' Bishop Barclay interrupted, 'She has aided us immeasurably by raising that, that...'

'I believe it is a pixie, Your Grace.'

'Yes, quite. By raising that pixie from the dead. It sounds to me as though we are already halfway there. She just needs persuading to get it to aid us a little further.'

'I'm not so sure...'

Bishop Barclay flapped his hand for Rev Beresford to be quiet, cocking his ear towards the fireplace.

'Austin, is it me, or is your fireplace singing?'

'Pardon, Your Grace?'

'Shush and listen, man.'

Together they both listened, straining to catch any hint of sound emanating from the fireplace. Rev Beresford, being a little hard of hearing, heard nothing. Bishop Barclay by comparison, became quite animated.

'Where does the chimney run in this building?' he asked, beaming.

'Err...there's a fireplace in the shop, Your Grace, but it was bricked up before I bought the building. There might even be one in the cellar, I believe that was once servants' accommodation, but with these old legs,' he indicated his walking stick, 'I haven't been down there for years.'

'No matter.' Bishop Barclay dismissed Rev Beresford's frailty with a wave of his hand. 'Perhaps I ought to take a look myself.'

'Oh, I wouldn't want to put you to any trouble, Your Gra...'

'Nonsense man! It would be my pleasure.'

'Well, only if you're sure. Access to the cellar is through a trapdoor in the floor of the shop.' Rev Beresford held out a key from his waistcoat pocket. 'This opens the connecting door to the shop at the bottom of the stairs. Just inside the front door.'

'Jolly good,' Bishop Barclay beamed as he rose and took the key. 'Thank you, Austin. I shall return shortly.'

* * *

Swazzle and Jamieson stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide in terror as the Draig's song drifted up the chimney. Suddenly, Jamieson sprang into action, wrenching open Mistress Botchett's larder and proceeding to shovel handfuls of bacon and sausages in to the stove's firebox.

'Och, c'mon laddie, give me a hand.'

Between them, they managed to get through Mistress Botchett's entire week's stock of breakfast ingredients before the Draig stopped singing, its song replaced by the sound of munching. The aroma of a cooked breakfast wafted out of the stove and Swazzle was beginning to wonder if he shouldn't put some eggs on to fry when Jamieson froze.

'Shite! There's somebody on the stairs,' and with that he vanished.

Swazzle was rummaging around for a frying pan when Jamieson re-appeared moments later.

'This is serious laddie. Get everyone up, wands at the ready,' he urged, 'While I go and prepare a little something of my own for our visitor.

Within moments Swazzle had assembled most of the basement residents at the bottom of the stairs, dismissing their questions with a wave of his hand and shushing them into silence. Jamieson appeared shortly thereafter, explaining the Bishop was having trouble getting the key to turn in the lock. He winked.

'It won't hold him for long,' Jamieson continued. 'Now here's what I need you to do...'

* * *

Bishop Barclay cursed under his breath. Why on earth didn't Rev Beresford maintain this old lock, he wondered as he jiggled the key. Eventually he managed to get it to turn and was soon hauling up the trapdoor to the cellar. Snapping on the torch from his pocket, Bishop Barclay set his foot on the top stair and tentatively began to descend.

* * *

As the Bishop's foot made contact with the illusory floor Jamieson had created, a group of Pixies shuffled forward and pointed their wands at the sole of his shoe, just in time to stop it sliding straight through the illusion. A second group did the same thing with the Bishop's other shoe, and together they began an awkward dance as Bishop Barclay set out to explore the apparently deserted cellar.

After several tense minutes of wandering to and fro, Bishop Barclay headed back to the stairs and began to climb, calling up towards the shop, 'You were right, Austin. There's no sign of anything down here.' The assembled Pixies grinned, breathing a collective a sigh of relief.

* * *

After exchanging pleasantries with Rev Beresford, Bishop Barclay bade him farewell and headed back to his car. Sinking into the air conditioned warmth of the leather seats he sighed.

'Thomas?' he called to his driver.

'Yes, Your Grace?'

'When we get home you'd best call the cleaner. It seems Austin has an infestation in his basement.'

The black Jaguar slid out of Gallows Close into the morning traffic.

___________________________

This week also marks the release of the final episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 15 over at Nishi's blog Breathing With Butterflies. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

Snow Joke...

2010-12-01T11:31:00.004Z

Okay, so there's plenty of snow about at Future; Nostalgic Towers, and the roads round here are like skating rinks...

It's winter, get over it!

Well I would, but...

I am moved this morning, watching the blizzard swirling outside my window, to have a bit of a moan about the snow. Well, not the snow exactly...

+++ Caution, snow rant ahead! +++

Our Skiing Correspondent ventured, at much risk to life and limb on the icy pavements, down to the local grit bin last night, only to be accosted by two of our erstwhile boys in blue (and just so you know, I have the utmost respect [usually] for our emergency services who do a very difficult job in often dangerous circumstances).

'What do you want the grit for?' they asked.

'I have two elderly neighbours who can't get out of their house because of the ice and snow, they haven't been out for a week, and I have a disabled family member who needs to make a hospital appointment. '

'Okay, but what do you want the grit for?'

'I'm going to clear my neighbours' paths* and put some grit down so they don't fall and hurt themselves if they have to go out. Then I'm going to dig our car out and put some grit down so my disabled family member can get to their next hospital appointment. You know, community spirit, like it says on the radio - look after the elderly and infirm...'

'Yes, but what do you want the grit...'

'Oh, go away!'

And they did! As soon as they'd gone, there followed a feeding frenzy around the grit bin. One old bloke said to Our Skiing Correspondent, 'I'm so pleased you did that. I wanted to, but was too frightened to say anything to them in case they arrested me.'

+++ Rant over. As you were. +++

* without having to be asked, I hasten to add.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #30: The Bishop of Rosedene

2010-11-25T21:00:00.000Z

This episode is number 30 in my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, or have missed an episode, you can find a full index of the episodes here.

___________________________

The watery morning sun was just peeping over the roof of the church when a black Jaguar with tinted windows glided quietly into Gallows Close, ignoring the street signs declaring the street a pedestrianised area. Coming to a stop outside Goddess Rising, the car sat for a few moments, brake lights glowing like a pair of rubies in the early dawn, exhaust pipe quietly belching clouds of grey fumes into the crisp morning air. The engine shut off and a grim-faced chauffeur climbed from the driver's door. He stood silently next to the car, scanning the street in both directions before striding over to Rev Beresford's front door where he rang the bell. His passenger's presence announced, the chauffeur returned to the vehicle and opened the passenger door, extending his arm to offer assistance to the black leather gloved hand that gripped his wrist.

Exiting the car, His Grace, Septimus Barclay, Bishop of Rosedene, paused momentarily to allow the stiffness from the journey to work itself out of his spine and legs before he marched purposefully to Rev Beresford's door and, finding it unlocked, stepped inside. His chauffeur returned to the Jaguar and backed the car slowly out of Gallows Close to find a parking space that would afford him a good view down the length of the street. Can't be too careful, he thought.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Bishop Barclay called out, 'Austin? Where are you?' as he reached the landing.

'I'm here, Your Grace. In the kitchen,' the chink of china betrayed what Rev Beresford was up to. 'Go into the Study, Your Grace. I'll be with you as soon as the kettle boils.'

Stepping into Rev Beresford's study, Bishop Barclay made straight for the fireplace, gratified to see that even at this early hour a roaring blaze sat in the grate. Removing his gloves, he rubbed the feeling back into his chilled fingers then sank into an armchair, holding his hands out in front of the fire.

The Bishop had just begun to loosen the buttons of his heavy overcoat when a rattling and clinking announced Rev Beresford's entrance with the tea tray. Setting the tray down on a side table, Rev Beresford hobbled over and took Bishop Barclay's hands in his.

'Good to see you, Your Grace.'

'And you, Austin. I was intrigued by your telephone call but,' he paused, 'Why don't we have some tea before you show me the video footage. Sit yourself down, Austin. I'll be mother.'

Rev Beresford shuffled slowly over to his armchair by the fire as Bishop Barclay rose and poured the tea, adding a good tot of whisky to each cup from the decanter next to the tea tray.

Setting the cups down, Bishop Barclay slurped his tea.

'That's a decent drop of malt you have there Austin,' said Bishop Barclay, an approving look on his face, 'even your appalling taste in tea can do little to detract from its flavour. Wherever do you buy that foul stuff?' He chuckled. 'Now then, Austin, where's this video you rang me about?'

* * *

Pogmorton had been moved to the hospital and, following a tearful reunion with Rushalka, was tucked in the next bed to hers, snoring softly. Swazzle had checked on the Night Packer while he'd been there, only to find the creature still in the grip of a fever. The remainder of the evening had been spent with Salkeld and the Goblins, the upshot of which was that Swazzle had a draig cage on order and a very thick head from rather too much Goblin ale.

Sitting in Mistress Botchett's kitchen, Swazzle rubbed his sore head and sipped his tea. As he'd filled Mistress Botchett's huge teapot, the draig had stuck its nose out of the firebox and made him jump. Hot water had splashed on its snout, but rather than injuring the creature as Swazzle had feared, the draig just shook the last sizzling drops from the end of its nose, narrowed its eyes at him and crawled back into the fire.

Swazzle was wondering whether his sour stomach would benefit from sustenance when Jamieson appeared in the kitchen, his face a mask of worry.

'What's up?' asked Swazzle, wincing as the words rang in his ears.

'Shush!' Jamieson flapped his hands. 'The Bishop's just arrived,' he hissed, 'He's upstairs now. We need to keep totally silent. If he realises we're here, we're done for.'

Not entirely sure what Jamieson was wittering on about, Swazzle held up his hand. The urgency in Jamieson's voice was making his hangover worse. After a few moments the throbbing began to subside.

'So who exactly is this Bishop?' asked Swazzle in a whisper.

'He's in charge of the ORG that the Master's a member of, ye ken?'

'No, I don't ken. ORG? What's one of those?'

'The Occult Research Group, O...R...G. Studies magical phenomena, creatures and such. Tries to find ways to use them for their own ends.'

'Creatures? Like...'

'Us. Yes.'

'I thought it was a bit odd a vicar owning an occult bookshop.'

'Oh, there's more to it than tha...'

A beautiful, unearthly song was drifting out of the firebox of Mistress Botchett's stove. It sounded like choirs of angels, harps and flutes all rolled into one eerily beautiful refrain. For a moment Swazzle and Jamieson were frozen to the spot as the melody rose and fell like a heartbeat, their cares and worries drifting away, carried aloft on the notes of the song.

Suddenly, Jamieson shook himself.

'Och, shite!' he muttered.

___________________________

This week also marks the release of the thirteenth episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 13 over at Adam Byatt's blog A Fullness of Brevity. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

Happy Thanksgiving!

2010-11-25T00:01:00.001Z

I'd like to wish all of Future; Nostalgic's readers and friends a very Happy Thanksgiving!

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #29: Resurrection

2010-11-18T21:00:00.000Z

This episode is number 29 in my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, or have missed an episode, you can find a full index of the episodes here.

___________________________

The little Pixie hand gripped the side of the cauldron, gobbets of the foul liquid dripping from the tips of its fingers to sizzle in the embers of the fire. For a few moments all was silent before Aveena drew in a huge shuddering gasp. Pogmorton broke the surface simultaneously, hacking up great lumps of the cauldron's contents as he supported himself shakily on the side of the cauldron with both hands. Rivulets of it ran down his face and arms, coating a swathe of the cauldron with bubbling, foul-smelling ichor.

Swazzle could not help himself from a sudden intake of breath at the sight of his old friend swinging his leg gingerly over the edge of the cauldron and half climbing, half falling out of its embrace to land with a thud on the ground next to the fire. After a few moments of silent chest-heaving, Pogmorton wiped the sticky liquid from his eyes, rolled over and scanned his surroundings. Their eyes met and Swazzle's breath froze in his throat. It is Pogmorton, but it isn't, he thought as he caught sight of the flat, dead look behind Pogmorton's eyes.

Recognition seemed to dawn on Pogmorton's face, he grinned weakly at his friend before collapsing to the ground again. Involuntarily, Swazzle started forward, stopping only when Aveena waved him back. The witch had begun to stir but had not recovered her strength sufficiently to stop Pogmorton when he suddenly stiffened, raised his head and sniffed the air before falling upon her bleeding leg and lapping like a dog at the blood oozing from her wound.

Following a short struggle, Aveena managed to at last dislodge Pogmorton, who scampered a few paces away, drew his knees up to his chest and whimpered like a wounded puppy. Aveena eventually reached her knees, staunching the blood with the bandage she had placed next to the cauldron, all the while murmuring to Pogmorton in that sing-song voice parents use to calm frightened infants. Gradually this seemed to have an effect, Pogmorton's body uncoiling as the whimpering subsided. He allowed Aveena to wrap him in the blanket she had ready for the purpose and lead him to the circle's edge.

Swazzle found himself drawn forward even before Aveena beckoned to him. Forming a door in the circle's edge with her finger, Aveena passed a shivering Pogmorton through into Swazzle's arms before sealing the gap and beginning another ritual to close the sacred space.

'Am...am I alive?' Pogmorton whispered as Swazzle lead him towards the back door of Goddess Rising.

'Yes. Yes, I think so,' replied Swazzle trying to ignore the haunted look in Pogmorton's eyes. Mostly alive, he thought.

* * *

Following a brief flurry of activity all was calm in Mistress Botchett's kitchen. The children had been packed off to bed and it had been suggested in no uncertain terms to Master Botchett that he might like to go and find something useful to do elsewhere. Pogmorton, still swaddled in Aveena's blanket, reclined in Botchett's rocking chair, Swazzle sitting beside him on a stool at the kitchen table while Mistress Botchett bustled about, making tea and smothering thick doorsteps of fresh bread with honey.

'Just the thing when you've been re-born,' she muttered with more conviction than she felt.

Under the circumstances Mistress Botchett felt she could forego sniping at Swazzle about the scaly tail still dangling from the front of her now battered stove. Had it not been for the Draig's predilection for Gnome flesh, she could almost have liked the thing, it seemed a dab hand at keeping the stove fire going. There again, she considered having to feed the stove less wood small recompense for the possibility of being devoured any time she fancied a cup of tea.

* * *

Rev Beresford stood, leaning heavily on his cane as he shut off the video camera he had pointed out of his bedroom window upstairs at the rear of Goddess Rising. Lathered in a cold sweat and squinting from intently studying the camera's small monitor, Rev Beresford trembled with more than old age as he made his way to his study and picked up the phone.

'Your Grace? Hello, Your Grace, it's Beresford. Pardon? Yes, I apologise about telephoning you at this hour, but this really couldn't wait.' Rev Beresford went on to explain what he had just witnessed and video-taped.

'As you wish, Your Grace. First thing in the morning. I'll see you then. Goodnight, Your Grace.'

He replaced the receiver. Well, he thought, this was a turn up for the books, and no mistake.

___________________________

This week also marks the release of the twelfth episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 12 over at Emma Newman's blog Post Apocalyptic Publishing. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #28: The Amulet, The Witch And The Womb

2010-11-11T21:00:00.002Z

This episode is number 28 in my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, you can read from the beginning here.

___________________________

It was the night of the dark moon, and since Botchett had “fixed” the flickering streetlamp in the back lane, its intermittent orange glow no longer a distraction, there was little to disturb Aveena as she sat cross-legged in the back yard of Goddess Rising, only the faint traffic noise from the ring-road and infrequent bursts of merriment from revellers at the pub on the corner.

The basement residents were under strict instruction to remain inside and to keep away from the small, barred window that provided the only natural light into the cellar. Only Swazzle remained, hovering outside on the back step after helping Aveena with her preparations. Hopping from one foot to the other, not sure whether it was fear or excitement he felt at the coming ritual, he was sure of his embarrassment at seeing Aveena naked. He had never seen one of the Big Folk without their clothes before, male or female.

Aveena sat in the centre of the circle she had constructed, her back to Swazzle, illuminated only by the flickering glow of the small fire she had built in front of her, onto which she carefully placed a small iron cauldron. To the left of the fire lay a wickedly-sharp looking knife, the firelight reflecting writhing serpents in its blade. Next to that, three small crystal phials. These Swazzle recognised. One held Pogmorton's blood, gathered at the time of his death, another held Twinkle's blood, taken at the same time. A third was filled with Rushalka's tears, Swazzle still had a knot in his stomach at the way he had followed Aveena's instructions at Rushalka's hospital bedside, provoking her sobs with the blunt news of her brother's death. A little way off nestled the final item, a dull green stone the colour of phlegm and about the size of a hen's egg.

This was Lady Mandrake's amulet, a simmering malevolence seeping from it to the point that Aveena had placed it within its own circle. A circle within a circle. Swazzle was secretly relieved he had not had to have anything to do with the amulet. He had seen the effect obtaining it had had on Aveena's relationship with Botchett.

As the witching hour approached and the liquid in the cauldron gently warmed, wisps of steam beginning to curl into the chilly night air, Aveena began to rock gently backwards and forwards. Dead on the stroke of midnight, how did she know, Swazzle wondered, Aveena rose and began to whisper, the chant rising to a gentle murmur as she turned to her left and moved slowly round the circle.

Swazzle blushed and tried to avert his eyes as Aveena came around the circle towards him but found he could not, his gaze drawn to the Pogmorton tattoo on her thigh. He could have sworn it looked different about the eyes, clearer, glittering. Must be the firelight, Swazzle thought as Aveena turned her back on him, continuing her circular journey.

As the ritual progressed over the next half hour, Swazzle's rising unease made him wish he had not asked to be present. A ghostly mist swirled around the circle, drawn from the earth as Aveena passed, curling and eddying in the wake of her passage, forming a sharp edge where it met the circle's edge. Within the mist spectral shapes started to appear, among which Swazzle could make out a fox, a raven and several other, more worryingly humanoid outlines.

The chant continued, clouds rolling in slowly to blot out the stars. A sudden rumble of thunder made Swazzle jump. He released a breath he had not been aware of holding. Aveena's voice rose slowly, always remaining slightly louder than the thunder that rumbled closer with each booming peal. The shadows, seemingly energised by the approaching storm, capered at the circle's edge, growling and snapping at eachother while Aveena continued moving, oblivious, concentrating her energies on maintaining the chant unbroken.

Every third time she passed her starting point, Aveena bent without breaking step and cast one of the phials into the cauldron, which hissed like an angry cat on receipt of each morsel. Once all the phials had been fed to the cauldron, and the surface of the liquid took on an oily sheen, Aveena stopped dead, her back towards Swazzle. She knelt, cradling the amulet in her hands before spitting on it and tossing it into the cauldron. The instant the liquid closed over the amulet a silent shockwave blasted out from the cauldron, blowing away the mist surrounding the circle, scattering the creatures.

Aveena picked up the knife, thunder crashing overhead as she held it up to the storm. An instant before she began the downstroke, Swazzle had a sudden premonition of what was coming and clamped his eyes tight shut. As a result he did not witness Aveena plunge the tip of the knife into her thigh, nor did he watch as she drew the blade carefully around Pogmorton's outline. By the time he dared to peep through laced fingers, Aveena was holding something childlike and bloody above her head while blood pooled under her leg in the firelight.

The chant reached a crescendo with a sudden shout in a language Swazzle did not comprehend, and Aveena cast the body into the cauldron. Seconds later a single bolt of lightning arced through the night sky into the cauldron. For a split second Aveena's circle was alive with tendrils of silver light, which slithered and danced over its surface, giving it the appearance of a huge, domed spiderweb. Then it was gone, the night an inky black once again, only the odour of ozone on the breeze and spots dancing before Swazzle's eyes witness to the lightning's presence.

Aveena collapsed backwards, her outstretched hand falling dangerously close to the circle's edge. Swazzle stuffed his knuckles into his mouth as a Pixie-sized hand, still wreathed in the cauldron's slimy ichor, grasped the cauldron's edge one finger at a time.

___________________________

This week also marks the release of the eleventh episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 11 over at Angie Capozello's blog Techtiggers' Soapbox. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #27: Questions, Questions

2010-11-04T21:00:00.000Z

This episode is number 27 in my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, you can read from the beginning here.

___________________________

In his sitting room above Goddess Rising, Rev Beresford was on the phone.

'Yes, Your Grace, I am still working on it, but the witch seems somewhat distracted at present.' He paused, listening. 'There have been developments though. Pardon, Your Grace? No, on another matter I have been unable to inform you of as yet.' Another pause. 'Of course, Your Grace, as soon as I can get away. On the original matter, did you receive the video footage I sent you? You did? Good...'

Rev Beresford's voice trailed off, his eyes drawn to the wooden cabinet on his sideboard that had begun, very gently, to vibrate.

'My apologies, Your Grace, I will have to call you back.' Rev Beresford replaced the receiver and struggled to his feet, his arthritic knees creaking in protest. The vibration had become a rattle and he began to worry the cabinet would shake itself onto the floor. Not wishing to risk damage to its valuable contents, Rev Beresford shuffled towards it as fast as his old legs would carry him, absently picking up his copy of The Daily Telegraph newspaper as he went.

By the time he reached the sideboard, heart pounding and palms clammy, the vibration had become quite violent. Resting his hip against the sideboard to roll up the newspaper, Rev Beresford felt the vibration coursing through his whole body. Steadying himself with one hand, he carefully reached into his waistcoat pocket for the small, brass key and reached out towards the cabinet.

'Hold still,' he muttered as the cabinet tried to escape its key, jiggling across the sideboard top.

Eventually, he managed to insert the key into the lock and, taking a deep breath, opened the lock. The cabinet doors shot open, Rev Beresford staggering back with a gasp clutching his cane. Something flew out of the cabinet like a bullet, buzzing around his head, easily eluding the newspaper he swatted ineffectually at it with. With a high-pitched squeaking cackle, the old fairy flew straight at the Rev's face, raking his cheek with razor sharp claws. Rev Beresford cried out in equal measures of shock and pain and the fairy, still cackling, sped off, flying a tight spiral course that took it straight up the chimney.

As Rev Beresford hobbled over to his armchair and poured himself a large whisky the fairy, trailing smoke from its wings shot out of the chimney pot with a “phut” like a cork from a bottle and climbed into the cold morning air. It was last seen riding a very recalcitrant seagull towards the climbing eastern sun.

After a few minutes when the whisky had taken the edge of the Rev's jangling nerves, he risked approaching the cabinet again. How on earth did Oberon escape he wondered, the thought freezing as he spied the fairy, wild-eyed and thrashing as it attempted to loose its bonds.

'My goodness!' said Rev Beresford reaching into his pocket for his spectacles. Bending forward, he took a closer look at the cabinet's new incumbent. Similar in size to the previous occupant, this fairy, he noticed, seemed a little more richly dressed, though the stain on the front of its trousers seemed a little suspect. And it looked drunk.

'Well, well,' Rev Beresford straightened up slowly. 'I'll have a proper look at you later, my lad,' and with that he shut the doors of the cabinet, locked them and dropped the key back into his waistcoat pocket.

* * *

Swazzle bumped into Salkeld on his way to the hospital to see Rushalka.

'Captain Swazzle,' Salkeld waved and hurried toward him. 'I've been looking for you. There's something at the hospital I think you ought to see.'

'I was just on my way there now,' Swazzle fell into step with Salkeld. 'I was meaning to ask you, how did you survive that fairy attack?'

'It was a close run thing,' replied Salkeld, hoisting up his shirt to reveal an ugly scar. 'Still hurts a bit, but I'm getting better day by day.'

'I also owe you an apology, and my thanks for rescuing us. How did you find us?'

'That was the Goblins,' chuckled Salkeld. 'I've been spending quite a bit of time with them since we got here. Their healer is,' he lowered his voice to a whisper, 'Better than ours. I owe my good health to him really.'

Swazzle raised an eyebrow.

'No, seriously. I've no idea what he did to me, don't remember much of it, but it seems to have worked.' Salkeld flexed his arm. 'See?'

Swazzle saw and looked suitably impressed.

'You'll have to meet him,' Salkeld continued, 'He's quite something. From the Balkans originally, at least that's what I think he said, my Goblintongue's a bit rusty. Came over here after the siege of Sarajevo apparently, which is where he learned his doctoring, so he says.'

Swazzle and Salkeld chatted in amiable companionship as they walked to the hospital. Once Swazzle got Salkeld off his hero-worship of the Goblin healer, he began to explain his predicament with the Draig.

'Aha!' beamed Salkeld, 'I know someone who might be able to help.'

Swazzle looked questioningly at him.

'Another of the Balkan Goblins who came over with Mratic, that's the healer's name by the way. Anyway, this other chap's a dab hand at make do and mend, so he's bound to be able to scrounge you something up. You know the Goblins have installed gas heating in their burrow?'

'No I didn't. How'd they manage that?'

'Broke through the building's gas pipe and rigged up something involving garden hose and tap fittings apparently. I'm still a little hazy on the details. We should go and have a word when we're finished at the hospital.'

Reaching the large tented hospital, Swazzle and Salkeld ducked inside, a ragged cheer erupting from the patients when they saw Swazzle. He was on the point of asking where Rushalka was when a nursing Pixie bustled up.

'Captain Swazzle? Yes? Good. Follow me please.' She turned without waiting for Swazzle's reply and led him and Salkeld to an alcove, curtained with blankets, in the corner. 'In here,' she whispered, holding the blankets back for them to enter.

A strange creature inhabited the alcove's only cot. Thin and gangling, the creature was apparently covered head to foot in soft black fur. Its emaciated arms lay on top of the bedclothes, ending in wide, spindly hands, each finger tipped with a sharp black claw. The large eyes were closed tight, a sheen of sweat dampening the fur of its forehead.

'It has a fever,' the nurse explained. 'We're not quite sure what to do with it.'

'What is it?' Swazzle asked, aghast.

'A Night Packer,' whispered Salkeld. 'It was with the prisoners you rescued.'

Swazzle was shocked, 'Why would the fairies take it prisoner, I thought they were allies?'

___________________________

This week also marks the release of the tenth episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 10 over at Cecilia Dominic's blog Cecilia's Random Writings. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #26: An Unwelcome Guest

2010-10-28T21:00:00.002+01:00

This episode is number 26 in my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, you can read from the beginning here.

___________________________

Master Jamieson was halfway across the landing, on his way to discuss accommodation arrangements for the newly-arrived escapees, when the other front door opened and Swazzle stepped inside, the little wyrm at his heels. Jamieson took one look at the beast, let out a very Scottish sounding squeak and fled back into his Butler's Pantry, slamming the door behind him. Swazzle listened curiously to the lock being thrown, the door bolted, shrugged and headed for the stairs.

Botchett was in his kitchen and in a foul mood to boot when Swazzle arrived.

'There are times, Mother,' Botchett said to his wife, 'When I could cheerfully strangle that bloody witch, like.' He cast an angry glance towards the ceiling.

'Yes dear.' Mistress Botchett continued stirring the huge pot of pease pudding on the stove.

'I mean,' Botchett thundered, 'Is it my fault Lady Mandrake's the only person in these parts who could've supplied the amulet we needed? Well, is it?'

'No dear.'

'So Aveena owes her a favour, like. So what? It could have been a lot worse. She's had a few favours out of me over the years, and I'm still here, aren't I Mother?'

'Yes dear.'

'And will you stop saying “yes dear,” “no dear,” “three bags full dear.” This is serious, like'

'Yes de... Oh look, it's Captain Swazzle! How are you, bonny lad?'

Swazzle nodded to Mistress Botchett.

Botchett gave his wife's back a hard stare. 'Aye, well...' he muttered, trailing off as the little wyrm poked its snout around the leg of the kitchen table. Botchett's eyes widened and he leapt backwards off his chair. 'By the god's balls, bonny lad! What's that doing in here?'

'Hello, Master Botchett.' Swazzle indicated the little wyrm, which was now rubbing its head against the table leg. 'What, him? Followed me home from the fairy castle raid. Cute isn't he?'

Botchett had gone pale, sweat beading on his forehead and there was a definite tremor in his voice when he spoke. 'Do...do...do you know what that is, like?'

'Some sort of baby wyrm?' Swazzle shrugged.

'Bonny lad, that,' Botchett pointed shakily at the little wyrm, 'Is a young Welsh Draig.'

'Oh good,' beamed Swazzle, 'I'd hoped you might know what it was. I'm going to need a hand looking after it.'

'Looking after it?!' Botchett's eyebrows climbed into his hairline, his eyes now the size of saucers. 'Looking after it?! It's not stopping here, Captain. No way, like.'

'Why ever not?'

Botchett took a few deep breaths. 'You wouldn't happen to know what Draig's eat, would you, bonny lad?'

'No.' Swazzle skritched the Draig behind its ear. 'I was rather hoping you could enlighten me on that score.'

'Gnomes, bonny lad. Gnomes!' wailed Botchett. 'Pretty much anything else as well, but Gnomes is their favourite, like.'

Swazzle looked crestfallen. This could be a problem, he thought.

'And it's not just that,' Botchett ticked points off on his fingers. 'Draig's only understand Welsh. And need a fire to sleep in.'

Swazzle noticed the Draig eyeing Mistress Botchett's stove covetously.

'And they're totally untrainable,' Botchett continued. 'No, bonny lad, it'll have to go. Off back to Wales with it, and the sooner the better, like.'

'What about the Welsh Gnomes?' Swazzle asked, stalling. 'Won't they object?'

'Aren't none,' replied Botchett, 'Bloody Draigs ate 'em all, like.'

As if on cue, the Draig made a sudden break for the stove, growling and snapping at Botchett as it rounded the table. Mistress Botchett shrieked and fled into her husband's arms as the Draig leapt, squirming into the firebox until only the tip of its tail hung down the front of the stove like a limp, scaly bell-pull.

Botchett glared over his wife's shoulder at Swazzle, who, hands raised in supplication, backed out of the kitchen intent on finding someone who could make him a stout cage with central heating.

* * *

When dawn broke, the wyrms broke off their attack against the fairy fortress and all uninjured personnel set themselves to the task of searching the rubble for survivors. Titania thundered into the courtyard just as Oberon tumbled unsteadily from a hole beneath a heap of stones.

'Seize him!' Titania bellowed, fairies from the nearest rescue party jumping to her command. Grabbing Oberon they dragged him unceremoniously to where Titania stood seething, the guard captain, shirtless and slicked with sweat, snapped a salute.

Titania sniffed Oberon's breath. 'Drunk. Again.' Oberon stared blearily back at her, belched, then grinned. 'Oh, I have had enough of this,' she sighed turning to the fairy guards, 'Hold him still.' This should have been done a long time ago, she thought.

'King Oberon, you have, and not for the first time, been found drunk when this kingdom needed you, when your people needed you. You have run from conflict, endangering your people and your Queen. The finding of this summary court is that you are guilty as charged. Our sentence is banishment.'

Oberon's legs gave way as sentence was passed, a dark stain spreading down the front of his hose. His eyes pleaded with Titania to give him just one more chance, his body sealing his fate by at that moment letting loose a stinking fart that made his guards gag.

Titania raised her wand, flicked her wrist, and Oberon vanished in a cloud of silver sparkles.

Turning to the guard captain, her eyes appraising the rippling muscles of his slick torso, Titania slung a languid arm round his shoulders.

'Captain...?'

'Plantain, my Queen,' he replied as Titania steered them toward her private apartments.

'Plantain, eh?' she purred, 'I'm not so sure I'm keen on that.' She thought for a moment. 'I know! I'll call you Oberon.'

If Titania had but looked she would have seen the dubious look in Captain Plantain's eyes.

___________________________

This week also marks the release of the ninth episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 9 over at Icy Sedgwick's blog Icy's Blunt Pencil. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #25: Escape and Banishment

2010-10-21T21:00:00.000+01:00

This episode is number 25 in my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, you can read from the beginning here.

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The last of the prisoners only just cleared the tunnel mouth when the outer wall of the fairy castle shuddered and, with a great sigh, began to slip, falling in a single piece right along its length like the icing from a cake. There was a good deal of sphincter twitching as the Pixies and Goblins raced to outpace the falling masonry. When the wall reached the base of the cliff on which the fairy fortress was built and started to break up, stones the size of cows rained down around the slowest of the group, throwing up a hail of dirt clods as they landed and miraculously missing the last in line by mere inches.

'Close run thing, eh?' shouted Salkeld above the rumble of falling granite.

'Yes,' wheezed Swazzle as he half carried, half pulled Rushalka along. Either she's getting heavier, Swazzle thought, or I need to take more exercise.

The little wyrm capered and gambolled, scampering in rings around the group, gently herding them in the direction of the forest and safety. Suddenly it stopped dead, raised its head, ears cocked and stared into the night sky. Swazzle glanced in the direction the wyrm was looking, his insides turning to ice water as he spied, silhouetted against the moon, a huge flying wyrm bearing down on them.

'Run!' bellowed Swazzle kicking forwards. The company sprinted for the border, Swazzle knowing with a certain dread they would never make it. Behind them, wyrms burrowed and crawled over the ruins of the fairy fortress, winged ones swooping and wheeling above the shattered castle, breathing deadly fire over anything that moved.

The little wyrm dashed towards its flying cousin, wings beating furiously until finally it managed to claw its way slowly into the air, making a beeline for the incoming beast. Its flight seemed ponderous to begin with, the little wyrm rising uncertainly into the night sky, though after a few moments a new confidence seemed to sweep over the little creature and it streaked forward, a small red dart aimed directly towards the head of the larger beast.

Some of the prisoners stopped to watch, and even Swazzle found himself involuntarily slowing down, eyes fixed on the unfolding drama above him while still trying to keep the group moving. He watched transfixed as the distance between the two wyrms decreased rapidly, then his mouth fell open as the larger beast sent a jet of flame right at the smaller one, sending it tumbling over and over in mid air as flames washed over it.

As the fiery breath died away, the little wyrm righted itself and flew at the larger beast again, smoke trailing from its singed tail. Swazzle accepted the inevitable and stopped dead to gawp at the unfolding drama above him. Salkeld ran straight into him and went sprawling just as the little wyrm reached the larger beast, executed a neat wing-down turn above its snout and sank its fangs into the tip of the larger beast's nose.

Bellowing in rage, the larger wyrm abandoned its attack run, wheeling away and climbing over the fairy fortress, the little wyrm clamped firmly between its nostrils. In that instant Swazzle recovered his composure and amid much shoving and cursing got the prisoners moving again, not stopping again until they were through the forest and in sight of the portal. With the last of them through the portal, Swazzle took one last look around before stepping through himself, wondering idly what had become of the little wyrm.

Swazzle had just begun to erase the chalk outline when something caught him full in the chest, knocking the wind out of him as it threw him a few yards up Hangman's Passage. A faint singed smell accompanied the missile, which came to rest tangled in his clothes. Swazzle strained to get air into his protesting lungs as the missile struggled and wriggled, then proceeded to wash his face affectionately with its serpentine tongue.

'Urgh! Argh! Gerroff!' spluttered Swazzle, batting at the little wyrm in a vain attempt to calm it down. The creature was now sitting on his chest, bouncing happily up and down on his bruised ribs. One of its ears was badly burned and there was a nasty gash across its snout, but the little wyrm seemed in raptures to see Swazzle again.

Eventually, Swazzle managed to struggle out from under the creature and clamber shakily to his feet. Struggling over to the wall, he completed removing all signs of the portal, the little wyrm twisting through his legs the whole time. The task completed, Swazzle turned and set off up Hangman's Passage in the direction of Goddess Rising, a sad whimper bringing him up short after only a few paces.

'Come on then,' Swazzle called resignedly over his shoulder, rewarded with the sound of claws clicking on the cobbles and together, Pixie and wyrm strode away up Gallows Close.

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This week also marks the release of the eighth episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 8 over at Danielle La Paglia's Flash Fiction blog here. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #24: Dragonrise

2010-10-14T21:00:00.001+01:00

This episode is number 24 in my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, you can read from the beginning here.

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Swazzle felt as though he'd been sitting on the damp flagstone floor in total darkness for hours. Rushalka huddled next to him, wrapped in a threadbare blanket. Elsewhere in the chamber, other prisoners sat or lay, the only sign of their presence the occasional cough or groan.

When the door had been slammed shut and the grille obscured, Swazzle had attempted to pace out the dimensions of his prison, for no other reason than to keep himself occupied. Based on his estimate, the chamber probably held around twenty prisoners, though who or what they were, and why the fairies had not returned them to the camps, were questions to which Swazzle did not yet have answers. Presuming the rest of the prisoners were in the same physical state as Rushalka however, Swazzle was sure there could be no assistance for an escape attempt from that quarter. It looked like he was on his own.

Swazzle must have been dozing because he felt a moment of confusion when a bellowing roar echoed along the corridor outside and jolted him awake. There was movement among the prisoners as they shuffled further away from the door as the roar sounded again, and some of them screamed or whimpered as a tremendous bang shook the walls of their chamber. A second thump blew a cloud of what Swazzle presumed was stone dust over him as the wall around the door shifted slightly. The chamber door twisted a couple of inches in its frame, a thin shaft of light illuminating scything across the chamber floor.

The prisoners retreated from the light into the shadows while Swazzle pressed his eye to the gap and squinted into the gaoler's chamber. Torches still burned in the wall brackets, but of the gaoler Stinkweed, there was no sign. Swazzle put his shoulder against the door and heaved. He heaved, pulled, kicked and battered at the door but it would not budge. He had just collapsed, exhausted, to the floor again when there came a commotion among some of the prisoners, who retreated to reveal a small drain in the middle of the floor from which came a faint flickering light.

'Captain Swazzle?' hissed a voice from the drain, 'Are you in there, sir?'

Swazzle dashed over to the drain. 'Yes, I'm here...'

'It's him,' said the voice, speaking rapidly to someone else in the drain passage. 'Start digging.'

The ringing of metal on stone echoed from within the drain.

Swazzle addressed the prisoners. 'It looks like someone's come to get us out. As soon as they break through, you need to be ready to move. I know some of you are very weak, but either we all go together, or...'

A general muttering, which Swazzle took as agreement, came from the assembly as once again a great thumping came from outside the chamber, this time dislodging a stone from the roof that missed Swazzle by inches as it crashed to the floor, stone chips and dust blossoming outwards from where it fell. A few seconds later, the stonework around the drain collapsed in on itself and a pointy hat appeared in the resulting hole.

'Cap'n Swazzle, sir?' asked Salkeld as he stuck his head up into the chamber, lighting his way with a firefly lantern.

'Here,' called Swazzle. 'By the gods, am I glad to see you.'

'We'd better be quick, sir. It seems the fairies was keeping a number of Wyrms captive and somehow they got out. They're raising merry hell and I wouldn't be surprised in the whole castle's about to collapse.'

Swazzle grabbed Rushalka by the shoulders and began steering her in the direction of the hole. A couple of goblins clambered out of the hole, and between the three of them, the prisoners were soon passed down to waiting hands in the drain passage. Swazzle was passing the last of the prisoners through the hole when there came a huge bang as the prison chamber door was hit by something powerful and collapsed inwards. Swazzle swung round in an instant, anticipating combat, but there, silhouetted in the doorway, was something the size of a very stocky rabbit, growling and swishing a scaly tail back and forth.

For a split second, Swazzle simply stared, then the beast let out a series of sharp barks and, claws scrabbling for purchase against the stones, hurled itself forward. Swazzle threw himself desperately into the drain hole, and had only just scrambled to his feet before the creature tumbled in after him, landing in a heap of claws, wings and tail at his feet. Righting itself, the creature sat at Swazzle's feet, thumping its tail on the floor. By the light of Salkeld's lantern the creature appeared to be a very small wyrm, russet coloured and sporting a full compliment of clawed feet as well as a pair of leathery wings. Lowering its head, the Wyrm dropped something cylindrical and wooden at Swazzle's feet. As Swazzle bent to retrieve the object, he was sure the beast was panting, then it flicked out a long serpentine tongue and licked him right on the end of his nose.

'It is!' Swazzle held his wand up to Salkeld's lantern. 'It's my wand! Well done, lad,' Swazzle ruffled the beast's ears and it gazed adoringly at him.

Salkeld coughed softly.

'Yes, you're quite right,' replied Swazzle, 'Let's get out of here.'

Preceded by the goblins, Swazzle, Salkeld and the prisoners made their way along the newly dug tunnel, some of the prisoners walking unaided, others supporting eachother and the weakest carried in makeshift blanket stretchers. Above them the fairy fortress rocked and crumbled as the Wyrms vented the fury of their incarceration upon their gaolers. At one point Swazzle was sure they were done for as the tunnel shook violently before a Wyrm tunnelled straight through it and vanished out the other side. The goblins diverted into the Wyrm's tunnel and they were soon at the mouth of the tunnel, cool night air rushing over them as they crouched, looking out at the scene of devastation surrounding the fairy fortress. Much of the surrounding area was burning as flying Wyrms wheeled this way and that, blasting anything that moved.

Swazzle turned to Salkeld and his Goblins, 'And how are we going to get past that lot?'

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This week also marks the release of the seventh episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 7 over at Anne Tyler Lord's Don't Fence Me In. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #23: Rushalka

2010-10-07T21:00:00.006+01:00

This episode is number 23 in my ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, you can read from the beginning here.

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Keeping close to the wall, Swazzle skirted round the edge of the courtyard until he came to a door, which, he presumed, lead into the undercroft of the keep. Judging by the barrel, small piles of ash and partly burned pipe-herbs next to the door, this was where the servants came for a smoke, so Swazzle was relieved when he found the door not only unlocked, but the hinges well greased so it swung open silently. He slipped quickly inside and shut the door behind him.

A wide corridor stretched ahead, firefly-filled lanterns making shadows dance along the walls. An opening in the right hand wall gave onto a set of smooth stone steps leading down into darkness. Swazzle crept slowly down the steps, keeping the side wall at his back until his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The steps seemed to go on forever, the air was cool and damp by the time Swazzle reached the bottom. Stepping off the last step, he flattened himself against the wall and peered into the blackness.

To the right darkness continued unbroken, to the left a faint flickering glow hinted at occupation. After a moment's hesitation, Swazzle started carefully down the left hand passage, keeping close to the wall and stopping every few yards to listen.

A few dozen yards down the passage was a doorway on the right from which came the flickering light and a faint sound of contented snoring. Peeping quickly round the corner, Swazzle saw a portly fairy reclining on a low chair in front of a small brazier, hat tipped down over his eyes, feet up on a stool and swaddled in his wings. Beyond stood a heavy oak door, locked by the look of it, with a small iron grille set at eye level.

Swazzle tiptoed silently to the door and squinted through the grille. There was no illumination beyond, but just enough light filtered into the chamber that Swazzle could make out several shapes huddled together on the floor.

What we need here, thought Swazzle, is a diversion.

Re-tracing his steps, Swazzle set off back down the corridor, past the steps and on into the darkness beyond. Conjuring a tiny flame into his palm, Swazzle found himself in one of the castle's cellars, crates and barrels stacked floor to ceiling. He was pondering how flammable the contents of the store might be when he spotted a small door on the far wall. Moving quickly over to it, Swazzle tried the handle and was surprised to find the room unlocked. Slipping inside, he found himself in a small chamber about the size of Rev Beresford's sitting room and filled to the rafters with piping, valves and arcane looking machinery. The air in here was distinctly warm.

Swazzle was just wishing Botchett were here to make sense of the equipment when he noticed a line of wooden boxes laid out on staging down one wall. Closer inspection revealed a familiar design, the faded and peeling lettering marking the boxes as the property of Botchett and Son. Wisps of steam rose intermittently from the farthest box into a metal hood suspended above the box that in turn connected to the piping.

An icy chill ran down Swazzle's spine as he realised what the boxes held. Cheeky bastards, he thought, they're using them for central heating.

Moving closer, Swazzle nearly jumped out of his skin when something cold and limp brushed his hand. As he fought to control his hammering heart, Swazzle held his light closer to the box, the small flame illuminating the tip of a leathery wing poking out from an aperture on the side of one of the box. Swazzle laid a hand gently on the box. It was cold. He checked the others, all bar one other gave off a gentle warmth.

A grim smile was fixed on Swazzle's face as he moved quickly to the last box in the row and began to loosen the fastenings, the Wyrm within growled low and Swazzle felt it moving about. Undoing the last fastening, Swazzle sprinted for the door and was halfway along the corridor when an unearthly roar reached his ears. He ducked quickly into the gaoler's chamber and in one fluid movement, hoisted the gaoler out of his chair and pinned him against the wall, his wand poked into its ear.

'Now,' snarled Swazzle, 'Get that door open.'

The fairy gaoler could do nothing except comply, blinking repeatedly in fear and surprise as he fumbled with the key to the cell. The door squeaked in protest as it swung open.

'Rushalka?' called Swazzle softly. 'Rushalka, are you in there?'

In reply came a general rustling among the inhabitants of the chamber before, after a few moments, a ragged figure struggled to its feet and shuffled slowly towards the doorway, it's pace quickening as it recognised the questioner.

Rushalka threw her arms around Swazzle's neck, nearly knocking him off his feet. Had he not already shoved the gaoler in front of him, the fairy would have bolted as he lost his grip on him, overwhelmed by Rushalka's grateful hug.

'Well, well, well, what do we have here?' a familiar voice dripping with malice sounded behind Swazzle. He swung round, still almost smothered by Rushalka, to face Twinkle and a squad of fairy guards standing in the doorway to the gaoler's chamber.

'Drop the wand, Captain Swazzle, and back away.' Banshee rifles were cocked and levelled at the doorway to underline Twinkle's order. Swazzle did as he was ordered.

'Stinkweed!' barked Twinkle, 'Get out of there and lock that door at once.'

The gaoler scuttled past him, scooping up Swazzle's wand as he went.

The door slammed and the cell was plunged into darkness. As the key turned in the lock Swazzle could hear Twinkle berating the gaoler. Swazzle slumped to the floor next to the softly sobbing Rushalka.

'It's alright,' he soothed, cuddling her to him. 'There's got to be a way out of here.'

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This week also marks the release of the sixth episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 6 over at JimBronyaur.com. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #22: Infiltration

2010-09-30T21:00:00.002+01:00

This epsiode is number 22 in an ongoing web serial, updated weekly as a part of #fridayflash. If you are new to The UCF Stories, you can read from the beginning here.

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As Botchett and Aveena sat down to dine with Lady Mandrake, elsewhere in the Other World, a small figure could be seen darting between the trees, heading in the direction of the fairy fortress.

Swazzle was making slow progress. Since the recent events at Goddess Rising, the fairies were taking no chances and had flooded the forest with sentries. For hours it had seemed that whenever he'd taken one step forward he'd been forced to take two steps back. Getting into the fairy fortress was going to be particularly difficult, Swazzle thought as he pulled himself deep into a patch thick of brambles to consider his position. He was halfway through one of Mistress Botchett's ham and peasepudding sandwiches when he spotted the hole in the bramble roots. The beginnings of a plan began to germinate.

By the time the sandwiches were finished, Swazzle felt sure the plan would work. Firmly grasping a small stick he'd found lying on the ground, Swazzle gingerly poked it down the hole, stopping now and then to feel for any resistance. After a moment or two something grabbed hold of the end of the stick and there followed a brief tug of war before Swazzle was able to haul the spider from its lair. Popping it deftly into Mistress Botchett's sandwich bag, Swazzle tucked the spider into his satchel and set off in the direction of the fairy kingdom's border again.

* * *

Oberon weaved unsteadily across the castle courtyard, a large bottle of Marigold nectar clutched in his fist. The castle had been on high alert for two days and nights and all the stress had shredded his nerves. Carefully climbing the rough stone steps to the castle wall walk on all fours, Oberon shushed theatrically every time the nectar bottle chinked against the stones. As usual these days, Oberon was hammered. At the top of the steps Oberon waved at the two sentries who snapped a neat salute as he staggered towards them, waiting until he had passed and disappeared into the garderobe passage before rolling their eyes and sniggering.

Once inside the garderobe passage, Oberon slumped onto one of the seats and took a long swig from his bottle. The cool darkness of the passage did go some way towards soothing his frazzled nerves, the Marigold nectar did the rest and soon Oberon was snoring, his face pressed against the cold stone wall as drool ran slowly from the corner of his mouth and dripped onto his tunic.

* * *

It was past midnight by the time Swazzle reached the midden beneath the fairy fortress walls. Picking his way carefully up the slimy pile, Swazzle soon reached the base of the wall and, as he stared upwards, he could just about make out a hole in the overhang high above him. He pulled the bagged spider from his satchel, musing idly about why fairy ordure had the faint aroma of flowers.

Whispering soothing words to the spider, Swazzle encouraged her out of the bag to sit in his palm. As he stroked her abdomen she began to spin, Swazzle deftly weaving her silk as it appeared until he estimated he had enough spider rope to reach the opening above him. Thanking the spider for her help, Swazzle set her down at his feet and she scuttled quickly into the darkness while he fashioned one end of the rope into a sticky ball of spider silk before swinging it round and round, letting go at the opportune moment so the ball flew silently up the castle wall. With unerring accuracy, the ball sailed straight through the opening and came to rest somewhere within, a few hefty tugs on the rope satisfying Swazzle that it had attached itself firmly to something immoveable. He began to climb.

* * *

Oberon was awakened by an urgent need to relieve himself. Lurching to his feet, he fumbled with the front of his leggings before bracing himself with one hand against the back wall of the garderobe to relieve himself. Oberon had a blissful look on his face, which changed slowly to one of confusion when he spotted the silvery thread stuck to the adjacent toilet seat. His aching bladder was thanking him for its relief when a pointed hat, smeared in excrement and looking somewhat wet appeared through the hole next to him, closely followed by a head. Oberon recoiled in horror as the head swivelled towards him.

'Thanks a lot,' muttered Swazzle, fairy pee dripping off his eyebrows. He hauled himself quickly through the hole and dropped lightly onto the stone floor. The fairy was still looking repeatedly from the bottle he clutched to Swazzle and back again when Swazzle whipped out the small club he kept for such occasions and whacked the fairy right between the eyes. The fairy crumpled in a heap at his feet, the bottle glugging the remains of its contents all over the fairy's tunic.

Wiping himself down with a handful of the leaves placed in a small basket next to holes, Swazzle crept silently to the doorway of the passage and squinted out onto the wall walk. Two sentries lounged a few yards away, deep in muttered conversation and passing a small flask back and forth between them.

Damn, thought Swazzle. He'd rather hoped this section of the wall might have been unguarded, or at least sparsely patrolled. He'd have to get past the sentries the old fashioned way, he was sure the fairies would have enchantments in place to detect Pixie teleporting by now. Taking a deep breath, Swazzle eased out of the doorway, dashed along the wall walk and began to descend the steps.

So far, so good, he thought. Now, to find what I came here for.

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This week also marks the release of the fifth episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 5 over at A Shift in Dimensions. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #21: An Audience With Lady Mandrake

2010-09-23T21:00:00.004+01:00

The gateway to Lady Mandrake's citadel.

In which Botchett and Aveena, in search of an amulet, venture deeper into the lair of Lady Mandrake...

As Botchett and Aveena made their way to the citadel it began to rain, a cold, hard rain that fell in sheets, swirled by the biting wind. They were almost upon the entrance when Aveena spotted a slight, unkempt figure lounging against the wall of the porch, trying to keep out of the weather. Layers of ragged, filthy clothing swathed the figure, giving it the appearance of a large hamster.

Sensing their approach, the figure snapped upright as Botchett stepped into the porch. Aveena caught sight of a much thinner man than she had at first thought, shoulder length greasy hair framing a narrow, weasely face. Twinkling brown eyes shone out above a narrow, pointed nose which, in turn, gave way to a set of protruding, yellow teeth as the face smiled in recognition.

'Pilgrim? What brings you here?'

'For a start that's Master Pilgrim to you, bonny lad, and it's none of your business why I'm here.' Botchett moved towards the door, the figure sidling round to put himself between Botchett and the entrance.

'Shift,' barked Botchett.

'I can't,' whined the man. 'I have my orders. Lady Mandrake said...'

'Listen, bonny lad, I am going in there to speak to your mistress whether I gave to go through you first or not.'

'But...but...I'll have to announce you...'

'Which will mean leaving your post, won't it? And we both know how the Lady feels about people leaving their post, don't we? Eh?' Botchett winked at Aveena.

The man was still spluttering as Botchett and Aveena pushed past him into the citadel.

'Thank you, Rat,' Botchett called back over his shoulder then, turning to Aveena, 'That bugger's well named. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could spit, like.'

Aveena was about to reply when the combined smells of overcooked vegetables, unwashed humanity and smoke from braziers fuelled with rubbish assaulted her nose and throat and she gagged, coughed, tears leaking down her cheeks. Botchett seemed unaffected by the stench.

Botchett glanced around the huge chamber they found themselves in. Moonlight filtered in through many windows set into a high, vaulted ceiling. Moonlight combined with flickering light from the braziers gave just enough light to reveal a community of ragged figures standing in the shadows around the perimeter of the room, the murmur of countless conversations slowly stilling as Botchett and Aveena made their way towards the dais at the far end of the room.

Lady Mandrake reclined on her throne as Botchett and Aveena approached. Dressed entirely in black leather, her shock of shoulder length blonde hair tipped with red seemed to shine out of the darkness of her ensemble, which was topped off by an old fashioned black top hat. Aveena shuddered as she realised the aura coming from the clothing was of human skin, not leather. Botchett seemed either unaware or he chose to ignore the fact.

Lady Mandrake glanced slowly up from the crystal goblet, the contents of which she had been contemplating.

'Master Pilgrim. What a pleasant surprise. It's been far too long.' Her honeyed tones made Aveena feel particularly uncomfortable. 'To what to we owe the pleasure of your company in our humble abode?' She punctuated the last sentence with an expansive gesture.

'My Lady,' Botchett bent his knee to her, Lady Mandrake laying a hand upon his head. Aveena could see from his aura that it took all of Botchett's self control to keep from cringing at her touch. 'We are in need of your unique expertise, like.'

'Oh,' Lady Mandrake's eyebrow rose into her hairline, 'How so?'

'I...we have need of an Amulet of Resurrection...'

'Vincent,' Lady Mandrake interrupted absently, 'Refreshments for our guests.'

The tall, thin faced man in the black suit standing just behind the throne nodded imperceptibly before disappearing into the shadows, returning shortly with a tray of crystal goblets and a matching jug of deep red liquid. He filled a glass for each of them, refilling Lady Mandrake's goblet as she held it out for him.

Lady Mandrake drank deeply, 'Ah, that's better. Now, what was that you were saying about an amulet, Master Pilgrim?'

Botchett lowered his voice and a whispered discussion took place to which Aveena was not privy. She could however, get a sense of the toing and froing of the negotiations from the periodic flares in Botchett's and Lady Mandrake's auras. By the time Botchett called her forward, Aveena had a sense the negotiations had concluded with each on an equal footing, though perhaps slightly in Lady Mandrake's favour, but only just.

'Allow me to present Miss Aveena Murphy,' Botchett said as Lady Mandrake held out her hand to Aveena. Aveena took the proffered hand and in an instant understood more about Lady Mandrake than she could ever have wished. She attempted to pull away, but Lady Mandrake held her fast, Aveena sensed her gazing deep into her eyes.

'Yes, Master Pilgrim,' purred Lady Mandrake, 'I think perhaps we can do business.' She turned her attention again to Aveena. 'There is much power within you, young one,' she said matter of factly.

Aveena finally managed to wriggle her hand free and turned to Botchett, her face a barely concealed mask of anger. She was still fighting to control herself when Lady Mandrake spoke again.

'You will of course stay and dine with us. I will have Vincent draw up the contract while we eat.' Lady Mandrake rose languidly to her feet and strolled towards a large mahogany table, loaded with dishes of fine foods.

As they followed at a distance, Aveena hissed at Botchett, 'Contract?'

'Well, you didn't expect her to give us the amulet for nothing, did you, bonny lass?'

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This week also marks the release of the fourth episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 4 over at Crone's Cauldron Publications. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #20: Lady Mandrake

2010-09-17T08:57:00.002+01:00

The Asian youth crouched, terrified, at the base of the dais. Shirtless and grubby, his upper torso bore the signs of a recent beating. Wide-eyed, he stared up at the woman on the throne above him, flickering light from oil drum braziers making her eyes periodically sparkle with an unsettling intensity.

'Asif,' she commanded, 'the court has found you guilty of pilfering, and everyone here has heard the confession you gave after questioning. Do you have anything to say before sentence is passed?'

Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Asif stammered something about being sorry and was begging for a second chance when the woman cut him off.

'You know the penalty for pilfering. We rely on each other here. There are no second chances.'

Asif began to cry, great wracking sobs so that he almost did not hear when his name was called.

'Asif.'

The youth looked up, shivering.

'There can be no leniency in cases of pilfering, however...'

Asif looked suddenly expectant, praying that perhaps a lifeline was about to be thrown in his direction.

'You have been a valuable member of our community, and we are not without compassion. The sentence of this court is banishment.'

Asif sighed with relief as a murmur ran through the assembled crowd. The woman held up her hands and the murmuring ceased instantly.

'The sentence of this court is banishment. You will be taken from this place and expelled from our community. There will be a hunt.'

Asif screamed as the guards seized him under the arms and began dragging him towards the door, the assembled crowd cheering as he passed by.

The woman glanced left to where a tall, thin-faced man stood cradling an ornate antique tortoiseshell box. 'Vincent, the box if you please.'

The man stepped forward, bowed and held out the box.

Asif's screams were quieter as she opened the box, the guards having dragged him the full length of the former shipbuilding yard's cathedral vaulted drawing office. Taking a moment to consider her choice, the woman carefully withdrew two amulets from the box, each a large quartz stone wrapped around with silver wires. Within each the demon could clearly be seen snarling and scrabbling to escape, their claws scratching ineffectually at the inside of their prisons.

The crowd shuffled back to the margins of the room as the woman held both amulets above her head. She paused for a moment.

'Release the prisoner.'

As the guards relaxed their grip, Asif sprang to his feet and sprinted, limping, out of the double doors into the night.

Laying the amulets gently at her feet, the woman closed her eyes, threw her head back and began a murmured incantation. The stones seemed to grow, then fall back upon themselves, dissolving to leave two snarling creatures at her feet. Seemingly part dog, part something else characterised by glowing red eyes, a mouthful of fangs and leathery wings, the demons growled and scratched at the floor, their mistress's bond holding them back.

Reaching the climax of the incantation, the woman brought her hands suddenly together, the sound like a rifle shot in the silence, and the demons surged forward, their claws throwing up chips from the sandstone floor as they accelerated. Swooping down the length of the room, each executed a sharp gliding turn and vanished through the same doors Asif had exited a few moments earlier.

The woman reclined on her throne, one leg thrown casually over its arm. The thin-faced man stepped forward once again, this time with a crystal goblet of deep red liquid proffered before him.

'Thank you, Vincent.' She took the goblet and drank deeply.

* * *

Heart pounding in his ears, chest heaving, Asif rounded the corner and could see the compound gates a couple of hundred yards distant. He felt no pain from his injured leg, though the tightness and ache in his chest made him regret not giving up smoking years ago as he pounded towards the gates.

With a hundred yards to go, Asif risked a glance over his shoulder but of any pursuit there was no sign. He could not hear anything either, save for the wind in his ears as he ran.

Fifty yards to go and a low, rumbling growl from behind him made Asif's bowels turn to ice water. He risked another quick glance and saw, eyes wide in terror, the two demon dogs bearing down on him, though still a good few yards distant. Sprinting as fast as his leg would allow, Asif reckoned there was still a chance.

* * *

'And let me do the talking,' Botchett instructed Aveena, 'Lady Mandrake and I go way back. She'll be more likely to help if I talk to her, like.' He pulled the bell rope for the second time. 'I wonder what's up. There's usually someone on the gate all the time.'

'Here's someone now, so,' Aveena pointed at the Asian youth running full pelt for the gate. 'Are they always that keen to attend to visitors?'

Botchett pushed Aveena suddenly back into the shadows and away from the gate. 'A hunt,' he said grimly. 'Well, that explains the lack of a reception committee, like.'

Aveena was about to ask about the hunt when there was a tremendous crash as the Asian youth collided with the gate. After shaking it ineffectually a couple of times, he began a desperate climb to the top, and was halfway over, relief on his face, when something grabbed his leg and hauled him quickly back the way he had come. For a split second his eyes met Aveena's, then he was gone.

Botchett shuddered as an unearthly scream rent the night air, followed by a few moments of growling and scraping before everything was still and silent again.

Shortly afterwards, a face appeared from a nearby doorway as a stooped figure dressed in layers of ragged clothing shambled towards the gate.

'I request audience with Lady Mandrake,' demanded Botchett.

The figure squinted down at him before the filthy face split wide into a huge grin. 'Why, it's Master Pilgrim, isn't it? Come ye in, come ye in.'

A heavy chain was removed from the gate, and it was dragged open just far enough for Botchett and Aveena to squeeze through the gap, before being slammed and securely locked again.

'Ye know the way, Master Pilgrim,' said the gatekeeper, 'Just mind your step, it's likely to be a mite slippery underfoot this evening.

Botchett and Aveena gingerly picked their way across the cobbles in the direction of Lady Mandrake's citadel.

________________________

This week also marks the release of the third episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 3 over at Attack of the Muses. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash - 6 Word Story

2010-09-09T21:00:00.000+01:00

I've fancied trying having a go at this for a while and so, in place of the usual UCF Stories (which will return next week), I am pleased to present my attempt at the six word story:

Trial by jury. Bring your toothbrush.

_____________________

This week also marks the release of the second episode in The Great Chocolate Conspiracy multi-part story. You can find episode 2 over at Mari's Randomities. Don't forget to follow the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter for more updates on this project. For more information, and to read from the beginning, please go here.

#FridayFlash: The Great Chocolate Conspiracy – Episode 1

2010-09-02T21:00:00.002+01:00

Magnifying glass image element courtesy Hv-Designs.co.uk

Welcome to The Great Chocolate Conspiracy! Chocolate Digestive biscuits have disappeared from the shelves right across the eastern seaboard of the USA, and now the shortage has spread to London. Detective Chief Inspector Sam Adamson and his international team of investigators from the Metropolitan Police's Confectionery Crimes Unit (CCU) have been tasked to solve the mystery.

This is the first installment of this multi-part flash fiction story that originated during a chat between the authors on Twitter. You can read how it all began here (links to all the installments will be added to the author list as they are posted).

The next installment will appear on Friday, September 10th at Mari's Randomities, and you can keep up on developments in the meantime by following the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter.

__________________

'What do you mean, there's no bloody choccy biccies?' thundered DCI Adamson, banging his mug down on the desk. 'I ALWAYS have choccy biccies with my morning cuppa,' he scowled, mopping at the puddle of tea soaking into the reports littering his desk. 'Oh, never mind. Just get out.' WPC Fox turned on her heel and almost sprinted for the door.

Out in the main office, DI Monica Marier rolled her eyes. Yes, she thought, the boss is well and truly back.

'Don't worry,' Marier consoled the sniffling WPC, 'The DCI's not himself. This is his first day back off sick leave after that terrible cinder toffee business last year, but,' she paused, 'You weren't with the Unit then, were you?'

WPC Fox shook her head and blew her nose productively into a tissue. No, thought Marier, I'm the only one of the original team left. She remembered the case vividly, it was the first major investigation for the Met's newly formed Confectionery Crimes Unit, someone had rigged a batch of cinder toffee chocolate bars with explosives and iron filings so they exploded when the packets were open and had then attempted to blackmail the manufacturer.

DCI Adamson had got very close to catching the perpetrator, until that fateful day he'd received a package of the bars and had absent-mindedly opened a jumbo sized one. The resulting explosion gutted the unit's office and left the DCI deaf in one ear and his left leg full of shrapnel. He'd been off work eight months and still needed a cane to get around, which had done nothing for his usually volatile temper.

The Unit had been re-housed in temporary offices above an Asian grocer's in Camberwell, for a time it had seemed they would be dis-banded, but recent events had seen the Unit reinstated, it's meagre staff bolstered by the addition of a couple of new members seconded from overseas forces.

Marier had overseen the office move and settled in the new staff, Vice Ispettore Mari Juniper of the Italian State Police, all designer suits and fine fragrances with a penchant for espresso, but an expert in all matters gelato-related, and the Unit's new forensics officer, Professor Grace Motley, formerly of UCLA, a crotchety woman of middle years, what the professor didn't know about US confectionery, or candy as she insisted on calling it, wasn't worth knowing.

Then there were the two uniformed PCs, Fox and Bournville who acted as runners, investigators' assistants and general dogsbodies. Both straight out of the Met's training college at Hendon, Marier presumed neither had actually volunteered to work for a unit run by a DCI passed over for promotion for “procedural irregularities” with the Assistant Chief Constable's daughter. She wondered just what they had done wrong to earn the assignment.

Her reverie was broken as the main office door flew open, heralding the arrival of DI John Hawthorne of the Met's Special Branch, Adamson's long time sparring partner.

'Morning Crumblies! Is he in?' Hawthorne didn't wait for a reply and marched straight into the DCIs office. Marier winced at Hawthorne's use of the Unit's unofficial nickname, the Crumbly Cake Squad.

* * *

'What the hell do you want?' barked Adamson.

'Charming,' remarked Hawthorne, nochalantly throwing his long raincoat over the back of a chair. 'Actually, I've got a case for you.'

'I've got a case for you, sir,' Adamson emphasised the “sir.” 'Just because you're Special Branch, don't think you can ignore proprieties.'

'Err, yes...sir. Sorry, sir.'

'Well, what is it then?' Adamson eyed the packet of chocolate digestives and the report in Hawthorne's hand.

'It's these,' Hawthorne indicated the biscuits. 'Every last one has vanished from shops right along the eastern seaboard of the USA. There've been riots, apparently.'

'So? What's that got to do with CCU? Unless it's escaped your notice, we're a British police unit.'

'Ah well, here's the thing,' Hawthorne warmed to his explanation, 'It seems the shortage is spreading.' He set the biscuits and the report down on the edge of the DCI's desk. 'There's not a chocolate digestive to be had anywhere in London as of last week, and reports of the same have come in from Manchester, Cardiff and Newcastle. The manufacturer's output remains constant, and the delivery firms have plenty in their warehouses, but any time they send stocks out to the shops, they've vanished by the time the truck arrives.'

Hawthorne watched in horror as DCI Adamson leaned casually over the desk, picked up the packet of digestives, opened it and proceded to dip one into the remains of his tea.

'But, but,' spluttered Hawthorne, 'Those are evidence!'

'Bollocks, John, they're biscuits, and they go lovely with my tea.' Adamson beamed. 'Anyway, what's this got to do with Special Branch? Oughtn't you be out catching terrorists instead of bringing me presents?'

Hawthorne fought to retain his composure. 'My boss had a call from Homeland Security in Washington D.C. last night. They don't have anyone with your, err...expertise over there, so my boss cleared it with ACC McVitie.'

Adamson shot him a sour look.

'And you're all off for a jaunt over to sunny America. I have plane tickets for you here,' Hawthorne fumbled in his jacket pocket, 'You leave for Washington D.C. tonight.'

As if on cue, the soggy half of a chocolate digestive detatched itself from the biscuit Adamson held and dropped into his mug with a dull plop.

'Shit!' muttered Adamson. 'See yourself out John, seems I have work to do. Oh, and on your way, ask Monica to step in for a moment, she'll be handling the logistics so I'd better brief her.'

* * *

It was a pleasant summer evening as the 747 lifted off from Heathrow bound for Washington D.C. Having pulled rank for an upgrade, DCI Adamson settled back in his first class seat, sipped his champagne and pondered the dinner menu. Secretly he was quite excited, not that he'd let any members of his team know it, he'd never been to America.

_______________

I hope you enjoyed the first episode. Don't forget to check out Mari's episode next Friday (Friday, 10th September) over at her blog, Mari's Randomities, and keep up to date with developments by following the #GtChocCo hashtag on Twitter.

Dog Days of Summer Flash Fiction Contest Winner

2010-09-01T14:21:00.001+01:00

I've just had some wonderful news – Michael J Solender of Not From Here Are You? Has just announced my story, The Pit of Hades, as the winning entry in his Dog Days of Summer flash fiction contest.

*pauses till the wild applause subsides*

It really was a great contest, and not a little bit challenging, having to fit an entire story, plus two specific words, into only 101 words. Michael tells me there were close on 100 entries to the contest, which have now been compiled into the Dog Days of Summer 2010 chapter book. Congratulations to everyone who entered, there's a wealth of fantastic flash fiction in the book, and a special thank you to Michael, obviously a man of excellent taste, for choosing my story as the contest winner.

If you'd like a peek at the book, here it is:

Open publication - Free publishing - More flash

If you'd like a copy of your own, please follow this link.

Don't forget to head over to Michael's blog to read the interview with yours truly.

#FridayFlash: Botchett and the Lambton Worm, a True Story.

2010-08-26T21:00:00.004+01:00

For my final WeSeWriMo post, we interrupt our normal programming to bring you a glimpse into the early life of one of The UCF Stories' favourite characters, Master Botchett the Gnome. I haven't numbered this as a true instalment of The UCF Stories, though it unofficially forms Episode 20. If you'd like to read The UCF Stories from the beginning, please go here.

As you can see from the WeSeWriMo Progress Meter in my blog's sidebar, with the publication of this post I have achieved the goal I set for myself at the beginning of the month. Yay me! *Ahem.*

___________________________

Young Botchett sat on the river bank, when round the bend came a knight in full armour, splashing through the shallows. Botchett sighed, the fellow was sure to scare away all the fish, and he'd promised his mother something nice for tea.

'We's thew?' asked Botchett.

'Pardon?' said the knight.

Botchett sighed, 'Who. Are. You. Sir knight?'

'I am Sir John Lambton. My castle is over yonder.'

'Castle?!' Botchett raised an eyebrow. 'Divent kid a kidder, bonny lad, I've seen it.'

Sir John looked crushed. 'Alright, manor house then.'

'That's more like it,' Botchett continued. 'And what brings you down to the river with all them spear heads on your armour, like? You look like a hedgehog.'

'The witch told me to do it.'

'Who? Old Mother Blackett?'

'Yes, that's her.'

'You want to watch her, like.'

'Whatever for? She told me I should cover my armour in spear points and fight the wyrm in the river if I were to kill it.'

Botchett couldn't help his excitement. 'A wyrm, bonny lad? Not the one that's coiled himself round Lambton Hill, over yonder, like?' Botchett pointed.

'Yes, that's the beast. How did you know?'

Botchett tapped the side of his nose. 'You'd be surprised what I know about witches and wyrms, like. My Lord.'

Sir John studied Botchett intently for a few moments. 'And who, pray, are you, good sir, to be speaking to a knight in such a fashion? You don't look like one of my tenants.'

'Ah, well...' Botchett began.

'And what are you doing with that fishing rod? Don't you know I own the fishing rights on this stretch of the river? Not poaching, are you?'

'Now hang on a minute.' Botchett was indignant. 'One question at a time, bonny lad. First, my name is Botchett, a Gnome of these parts. Second,' Botchett looked ruefully at his fishing rod, 'Aye, it is a bit of a cliché I know, like, but I promised my Mam a little fishy on a little dishy when I got home, not that there's much chance of that with you plodging about like you are, bonny lad.'

'Oh,' said Sir John.

Botchett continued before the question of poaching was raised again, 'Anyway, Old Mother Blackett. I bet there was conditions?'

'Yes,' Sir John uncertainly, 'How did you know?'

'Always is with Old Mother Blackett, like.'

'Oh,' said Sir John, again.

'And what are they?'

Sir John hesitated. The fact he was conversing with a Gnome on a riverbank was beginning to sink in. 'She said I'd be sure to be victorious with my armour so adorned,' Sir John indicated the spear points again, 'And once I've killed the wyrm, she said I've to slay the first living thing I see, lest my family be cursed for nine generations.'

'That sounds about right.' Botchett rubbed his chin.

'So my father is going to tether a hound outside our gate,' continued Sir John, warming to his story, 'And I'll slay it on my way home. That ought to take care of the conditions.'

'There is another way.' Botchett looked mysterious.

It was Sir John's turn to raise an eyebrow.

'What if you were to catch the wyrm, not kill it? The bargain is for you to kill the wyrm. If you take it alive, the conditions don't come into it, eh bonny lad?'

Sir John thought for a moment. 'You know, Master Gnome, you may just have something there. But how could such a thing be done?'

'Aha,' chuckled Botchett, 'I might just be able to help you there, bonny lad.'

Botchett and Sir John's discussions lasted long into the night, and both were feeling anything but rested when they returned to the riverbank before dawn. Botchett rigged a large net and some strange apparatus while Sir John kept a close eye on the path to Lambton Hill, from whence the wyrm would come down to the river to drink every morning. Botchett had read the instructions and was sure he knew what he was doing.

The early morning sun was attempting to burn off the mist from the river when Sir John heard slithering approaching from the direction of Lambton Hill.

'It's coming,' hissed Sir John, wading out to a sandbank in the middle of the river.

Botchett rolled his eyes as Sir John splashed and clanked through the water. Unless the wyrm was stone deaf it must surely know someone was waiting for it. So much for the element of surprise. Botchett threw himself flat behind the iron-bound wooden box he'd borrowed from his father, adjusting the drinking horn that stuck out of the top of it from his prone position.

As Botchett remembered things later, none of what followed was his fault. Perhaps the net snagged on a branch, or maybe the wyrm moved faster than he expected, either way it barrelled straight through the trap and into the river once it caught sight of Sir John. The knight had only time to cast a withering look in Botchett's direction before the beast was upon him, and Botchett watched from the riverbank as the fight became more and more vicious.

At one point, Botchett was sure Sir John was done for as the wyrm coiled itself around him, though in so doing it impaled itself on the spear points attached to Sir John's armour and reared up, bellowing in agony as the sharp points dug deep into its flesh. Seizing his opportunity, Sir John lunged and buried his sword blade deep into the beast's brain. The wyrm fell lifeless at his feet.

Sir John waded ashore, muttering something about hanging every Gnome he could get his hands on, and marched purposefully off in the direction of the manor house. Botchett felt obliged to follow at a safe distance, hoping the knight would calm down enough for him to explain.

Nearing the gate of the manor house, Botchett's blood ran cold as there, instead of a hound, stood Sir John's father, wringing his hands. Sir John paused, advanced, raised his sword, paused again, then collapsed to his knees at his father's feet.

'Father,' Sir John wailed, 'Where is the hound?'

His father opened his mouth to speak, paused, then closed it again. Tears ran down the old man's cheeks.

'I cannot kill you, Father,' continued Sir John.

'Then we are cursed, my son.'

'Shit,' muttered Botchett and ran home to start packing.

___________________________

Author's note: Surprisingly, Botchett's part in the slaying of the Lambton Worm does not appear in the “authorised” versions of events, nor in C.M. Leumane's 1867 folk song of the same name, but we know better, don't we?

For more information on the legend of the Lambton Worm, there is a good article on Wikipedia here, and if you'd like to hear the song, sung more-or-less in the Mother Tongue, I have great pleasure in presenting Mr. Tony Wilson, Storyteller, Writer and Musician of these 'ere parts with his rendition of the song of the Lambton Worm:

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #19: Vincent

2010-08-19T21:00:00.000+01:00

This is the third of my WeSeWriMo (Web Serial Writing Month) posts.

Vincent is the nineteenth installment in my on-going flash fiction serial, The UCF Stories. If you'd like to read the story from the beginning, please go here.

________________________

He slipped through the shadows of the churchyard as though they had been greased to ease his passing. Night time rustling in the shrubbery ceased instantly as he passed, small creatures frozen in terror at his sudden appearance. Vincent made no sound as he walked, even his ankle length overcoat, which by rights ought to flap and swish as he walked, was silent. He crossed the gravel path as quietly as a leaf on the breeze, making purposefully for a secluded area of the churchyard where overgrown gravestones poked through the undergrowth like the last few rotten, neglected teeth in an ancient mouth.

A Tawny owl swooped low across the path in front of Vincent, banking sharply at the sight of him. Briefly their eyes met, mutual recognition and respect of one predator for another, then the owl was gone. Vincent pressed on, pausing only once he had pushed through the overgrown rose hedge into the farthest corner of the churchyard. An old, rusting sign warned against entering the area as there was, it read, still a danger of contamination from the graves of the cholera victims within. Vincent chuckled quietly, a bit late for me, he thought.

Tucked away at the farthest end of the churchyard, the old cholera cemetery was a wild place. Groundsmen never visited and even the churchyard's resident vagrant would not sleep here. Most of the gravestones that remained upright were simple stone affairs, more grave markers than elaborate eulogies for their former owners. Some had long since collapsed to lie forgotten beneath the mat of bindweed, brambles and rough grass that covered the area. Vincent was well aware of the vicar's feelings about the cholera graves, the man would have loved to have the site cleared, but the threat of the disease terrified him. Five years ago the Church Commissioners had engaged archaeologists to survey the cemetery, the vicar had taken one look at their hazchem suits and booked himself a fortnight's holiday in the north of Scotland.

Vincent picked his way through the tangle of vegetation, the only sound drifting in on the midnight breeze that of traffic on the ring-road, the drivers oblivious as to how close they came to death every time they took that route. Even knowing the area so well, it took Vincent some time to locate the particular grave he sought, its occupant a one year old infant. Elizabeth Deptford died within the first few days of the outbreak in 1832, she only had a grave of her own on account of her father being a wealthy ship owner.

Kneeling next to the grave, Vincent rolled up his left sleeve and gently worked his fingers through the tangled mat of vegetation into the earth. Wriggling and pushing, Vincent forced his fingers, his hand, then his arm down into the earth, his mind focussed intently on that which he sought. His arm seemed to elongate of its own accord until his fingers brushed past what remained of the rotten coffin lid and Vincent felt a bone touch his fingertips. A moment to orientate himself, then moving quickly, Vincent worked his hand around the skeleton until he grasped the child's femur. Pulling back in one fluid movement, Vincent slipped his arm, still grasping the femur, out of the grave, collapsing back onto the ground as his hand came free of the soil.

Brushing grave dirt from his arm, Vincent examined the bone in the moonlight. It was perfect, and remarkably well preserved. Shoving it deep into his overcoat pocket, Vincent picked his way out of the cholera cemetery and strode quickly towards another part of the churchyard. Reaching his own grave, Vincent seemed to dissolve, a small dark cloud drifting down towards the earth, he quickly disappeared completely into his grave and set to work on the bone.

It was a full week before the furore of the desecration abated and Vincent felt it safe enough to emerge again. The churchyard was once again deserted, long gone the police and coroner who had been followed by the press, ghoulish sightseers and night-time thrill seekers. The vicar had booked himself another holiday.

Vincent watched the young Goth couple from the shadow of a Yew tree. Giggling, they swigged from a bottle of super strength cider as they weaved unsteadily between the stones, eventually plonking themselves down on the large granite slab that marked the final resting place of Masie Rose Dean. Masie would not have approved, Vincent thought.

Feeling the tension in the air heighten, Vincent waited until the boy was poised, trousers round his ankles, before stepping from behind the tree and casually breaking his neck with a flick of his wrist. Tossing the body aside, Vincent fell upon the girl, clamping one hand over her mouth and noting with a mild interest her wide eyed fear and creamy breasts as he raised her to heights of ecstasy before jabbing the sharpened end of Elizabeth's femur into her jugular.

Once all was still once more Vincent adjusted himself, wiped the bone on the dead girl's thigh before setting off across the churchyard. He had surpassed himself this time, he thought, Lady Mandrake was going to be particularly pleased with her new pen. And the ink, such a sweet ink, it would be perfect for contracts.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #18: Aftermath

2010-08-12T21:00:00.001+01:00

This week marks the second of my WeSeWriMo (Web Serial Writing Month) posts. If I'm to meet my goal, August's #FridayFlashes will all have a UCF flavour with, all being well, something a little unusual, at least for me, coming up towards the end of the month.

Aftermath is the eighteenth installment in my on-going flash fiction serial, The UCF Stories. If you'd like to read the story from the beginning, please go here.

________________________

Following the fairy attack, Swazzle and Botchett mourn Pogmorton's demise.

'Wait!' Aveena knelt beside Pogmorton's body and stared intently at it for a moment. She saw a swelling blue aura begin to blossom from Pogmorton's mouth.

'There's still a chance. The spirit has not yet left the body.' Golden ink flowed into Aveena's right hand, solidifying into a finely wrought torc, which she passed quickly to Botchett. 'Slip this around his neck. Quickly.'

Botchett did as he was bid, and Aveena noticed with satisfaction Pogmorton's aura start to drift back into his body.

'Is that it? Will he be all right?' Swazzle asked in a small voice.

'Not yet,' replied Aveena, 'That was just the first stage of a long and dangerous process. I'm not even sure it will work, but it's the only chance he's got.'

'What happens next, bonny lass?' Botchett couldn't see any change in Pogmorton's condition.

'I need somewhere safe to keep him,' said Aveena, 'While I do some research.' She cast her eyes over the assembled company and sighed. 'There's only one thing for it.'

Aveena stood and began unbuttoning her jeans. She pushed them down to her ankles and hunkered down next to Pogmorton again. Rev Beresford tried not to look, and failed.

Aveena took hold of Pogmorton gently under his arms. 'Give me a hand there, Master Gnome,' and with Botchett's help she managed to position Pogmorton over her right thigh.

'Now back off a bit, I'm not sure how well this is going to work.' Botchett took Swazzle by the shoulders and the pair stepped back, watching in fascination as Aveena began to chant quietly.

Rev Bereford, his face somewhat flushed, dabbed at his brow with a large white handkerchief, never once taking his eyes off Aveena.

After a few moments Aveena's chanting grew louder, her face contorted in a grimace of pain. As Botchett and Swazzle watched, Pogmorton's body seemed to dissolve and sank into Aveena's thigh. With a final repetition of the chant, which ended in a blood curdling scream, Pogmorton disappeared beneath Aveena's skin, leaving behind a perfect picture of himself, complete in every detail.

After a few moments Aveena struggled painfully to her feet. 'By the gods, but that smarts a bit, so.'

'That's one heck of a trick, like' marvelled Botchett. 'Is that how your other tattoos were done, bonny lass?'

'Oh no, Master Gnome,' Aveena smiled, 'My other pictures are something quite different. What I've done with, err...'

'Pogmorton.'

Aveena nodded. 'What I've done with Pogmorton is another thing entirely, and it's only temporary. I've no idea how long it'll last, so if you'll excuse me, I'm after sticking my nose in a few of Simeon's books. Master Gnome, would you be so kind as to collect up as much of Pogmorton's blood as you can, and that puddle of fairy blood? Make sure the two don't mix, mind.'

Botchett did as he was asked.

Once the blood had been gathered, Aveena picked up her sword and without a word to Rev Beresford swept from the room, closely followed by Swazzle and Botchett.

Simeon groaned and sat up slowly rubbing his head. 'There were fairies,' he mumbled.

* * *

For the next two days Goddess Rising looked like an explosion in a library. Botchett and Swazzle rushed this way and that, collecting and returning one obscure tome after another while Aveena sat, cross legged in the middle of the shop table with piles of open books and notes scattered all about her, moving only to stretch her aching muscles or answer the call of nature brought about by Simeon's endless cups of tea. Simeon himself seemed positively eager to help, even if his sole contribution was, at Aveena's insistence, to keep out of the way and make tea.

In the early hours of the morning of the third day, Aveena suddenly sat bolt upright.

'Aha!' she crowed, 'I've got it.'

'Got what?' mumbled Swazzle who had fallen asleep through sheer exhaustion atop a nearby bookcase.

'I've got it,' Aveena repeated, 'I think I know how to help Pogmorton.'

Swazzle was wide awake in an instant, looking expectantly at her.

'I said, I “think” I know what to do, there are no guarantees, but it's the best chance he's got. Where is Master Botchett, I'm going to need the both of you to help with this.'

'Botchett!' roared Swazzle.

Botchett's head appeared around the kitchen door. 'What, bonny lad?'

'Aveena's on to something, and she needs our help.'

Once Aveena had run through what would be required, Botchett thought for a while. 'The blood we've got, the herbs are easy enough to find, and I'm sure Master Swazzle will be able to locate whatever you need from the Other Realm.'

He paused and rubbed his beard, 'The amulet's the thing that's going to cause the most problems. They're very hard to come by, like. There's only one thing for it, we will have to pay a visit to Lady Mandrake.'

Botchett shuddered at the very prospect.

#FridayFlash: The UCF Stories #17: The Tome of Levelling (Part 2)

2010-08-05T21:00:00.002+01:00

This week marks the first of my WeSeWriMo (Web Serial Writing Month) posts. If I'm to meet my goal, August's #FridayFlashes will all have a UCF flavour with, all being well, something a little unusual, at least for me, coming up towards the end of the month.

The Tome of Levelling (Part 1) is the sixteenth installment in my on-going flash fiction serial, The UCF Stories. If you'd like to read the story from the beginning, please go here.

________________________

The Pixies and Botchett have just surprised Rev Beresford in the act of showing Aveena the Book when a squad of Urban Combat Fairies, lead by Twinkle, burst in through the front window of the Rev's rooms above Goddess Rising.

Simeon took one look at the fairies, made a small mewling noise and fainted. The thud of his body hitting the floor made everyone jump, and Twinkle took this as her cue to lunge for the Book.

'Oh no you don't.' Aveena jerked the book out of Twinkle's reach. She wasn't sure what the book contained, but from its aura she could tell it was powerful, hugely powerful, and it didn't seem like a good idea to be handing it over to fairies, to anyone, until she had a better idea of the damage that might be done.

'Give me the Book,' demanded Twinkle.

'Not so fast, bonny lass,' growled Botchett, producing two unfeasibly large ducks-foot pistols from inside his tunic. Each one had seven brass barrels that fanned out from a single trigger, glinting in the firelight as Botchett levelled them in the fairies' direction. Swazzle and Pogmorton exchanged looks, their eyebrows climbing into their hairlines.

'Err, Botchett...' Swazzle began.

'Not now, bonny lad. I need to keep an eye on these tricky buggers.' Botchett continued, his voice a little louder, and harsher, for the fairies' benefit, 'What we have here is a bit of a stand-off, like. The first one of you little bastards moves, and I'll do for the lot of you.' He smiled dangerously at Twinkle.

'If you do not hand over the Book,' Twinkle locked eyes with Aveena, 'I will order my squad to open fire.'

The stand-off lasted for a few moments, until Rev Beresford, grimacing in pain, leant suddenly over the arm of his chair and attempted to grab Twinkle, then everything seemed to happen at once.

Twinkle neatly sidestepped the Reverend's lunge, yelled, 'Fire!' and dived for the book again. The screaming reports of her squad's Banshee rifles were all but drowned out by the two terrific booms of Botchett's pistols, which filled the room with clouds of black powder smoke and made everyone wince. Banshee rifle rounds slapped into the wall behind the Pixies.

In the brief mayhem of the exchange of fire, Twinkle managed to get a hand on the book and began a tug of war with Aveena that only ended when Aveena shrugged her shoulder and Twinkle watched with growing horror as a dark liquid ran rapidly from under Aveena's jacket cuff into her hand and dripped towards the floor. Instead of forming a puddle on the floor at Aveena's feet, the liquid quickly solidified into a wickedly sharp short sword, which Aveena brought upwards with a neat flick of her wrist, severing Twinkle's hand at the wrist.

'Warned you, so,' said Aveena flatly.

With the sudden release in pressure as Twinkle fell back gasping in pain, Aveena's arm recoiled and the book slipped from her grasp.

As the book sailed through the air over Aveena's shoulder, Pogmorton whipped out his wand, and with a few deft movements, folded the book, with Twinkle's hand still attached, neatly into a pocket of space before collapsing backwards himself. The only sign the Book had ever been there was a soft imperfection in the air, like a fault in a medieval window glass. Rev Beresford would marvel later at how he could see the imperfection was there from any angle, and the rest of his room that lay beyond it, but that he could not touch it, the faint fault line seeming to elude his grasping fingers every time he tried.

As the smoke cleared, the carnage wrought by Botchett's “deck-clearers” became all too apparent. Twinkle's entire squad lay broken and bleeding, the walls behind them peppered with shot. Twinkle edged slowly backwards over their bodies toward the window.

Aveena became aware her left arm was bleeding. Shrugging off her jacket to reveal a white vest top beneath, Aveena noticed a thin, angry red line where a Banshee rifle bullet had grazed the side of her left bicep. A small rivulet of blood curled slowly down her upper arm. While Aveena concentrated on her wound, the rest of the assembled company merely stared dumbstruck at the two full arm sleeves of tattoos Aveena's jacket had concealed, each running completely from shoulder to wrist, and intricately interwoven with mythical beasts, Celtic weaponry and the four elements. There was a sword shaped space in the design on Aveena's left forearm.

With everyone's eyes on Aveena's tattoos, Twinkle slipped quietly out of the window and fluttered unsteadily away.

'By the gods!' marvelled Swazzle, 'Those are impressive. Hey, Pogmorton, have you seen...'

Swazzle turned to find, lying at his feet, the motionless body of his best friend, blood fountaining from a gaping wound in the side of Pogmorton's neck.

'Noooooooooo!' wailed Swazzle, dropping to his knees and cradling Pogmorton in his arms.

Botchett checked for a pulse, then laid a gentle hand on Swazzle's shoulder. 'I think he's gone, bonny lad.' He paused. 'I'm sorry, like.'

Swazzle threw his head back and let out a blood-curdling, keening howl.

#FridayFlash: UCF Stories #16: The Tome of Levelling (Part 1)

2010-07-29T20:00:00.003+01:00

The Tome of Levelling (Part 1) is the sixteenth installment in my on-going flash fiction serial, The UCF Stories. If you'd like to read the story from the beginning, please go here.

____________________________________

Back in Botchett's quarters at Goddess Rising, Swazzle and Pogmorton are just settling down for a nice cup of tea. Mistress Botchett is baking while her husband is making sure the Wyrm in its travelling box is securely stowed away.

Swazzle and Pogmorton sat at Mistress Botchett's kitchen table in the basement-below-the-basement of Goddess Rising. Botchett was busy securing the travelling box in the cupboard under the stairs.

'Look at the state of my hat.' Swazzle poked his finger through the neat hole left by the Banshee rifle bullet and wiggled it. 'And it's my best one. Where am I going to get a new one from now?'

'Give it here, hinny, I'll get my needle and thread.' Mistress Botchett bustled past with a huge steaming leek pudding. 'You'll never know there was a hole when I'm done with it.'

Swazzle wasn't convinced and glanced over at Pogmorton for reassurance. Pogmorton sat in Botchett's rocking chair, his back to the fireplace, cuddling a pint mug of tea and staring vacantly into space.

'What do you think, should I let Mistress Botchett have a go at fixing my hat?'

Pogmorton didn't seem to have heard him.

'I said,' began Swazzle again, nudging his friend, 'Shall I let...'

'Yes, I heard you,' snapped Pogmorton. 'The fairies have Rushalka in one of their prisons and you're sitting here, banging on about your bloody hat!'

Swazzle threw his hands up in a placatory gesture. 'And as soon as it's fixed we'll get working on a plan to get her out.' He handed the hat to Mistress Botchett as she passed.

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry.' Pogmorton shook his head sadly, 'It's just that...'

He was interrupted as Jamieson the house spirit dashing through the wall next to the fireplace, worry writ large upon his face. 'You'd better come at once,' he wheezed, dabbing his sweaty face with a large floury hankerchief, 'The Reverend has the witch upstairs. He's showing her The Book.'

Jamieson's emphasis on the last two words snapped Swazzle's mind back to the task at hand from where it had been wandering, idly contemplating how house spirits could get out of breath when they didn't actually need to run anywhere. Even Pogmorton was taking an interest.

'Lead on Master Jamieson,' Pogmorton instructed, jumping to his feet, 'We're right behind you.' The three of them bolted for the stairs, nearly sending Botchett flying as he emerged from the cupboard under the stairs.

'Gan canny, bonny lad!' Botchett grabbed the end of the kitchen table to steady himself. 'What's going on, like?' Jamieson repeated his message as he took the stairs two at a time.

'I'll be right with you,' called Botchett, diving back into the cupboard.

* * *

Aveena shuddered. She could sense the contents of the museum cabinets lining the walls of Rev. Beresford's study. She also sensed a certain amount of unease emanating from the Rev himself, as though he knew that she knew what they held.

'Welcome. Welcome,' Rev Beresford beamed. 'Come in, Miss Murphy. I have something to show you.' He glanced over Aveena's shoulder into the doorway. 'Simeon, would you mind putting the kettle on, there's a good chap.'

Simeon trudged down the landing to the small kitchen at the rear of Rev Beresford's rooms and, after shaking the kettle to check it was full, flicked the wall switch and waited. As the kettle burbled away in the background, Simeon busied himself setting out the tea cups, sugar and milk jug on a tray and trying not to wonder about whatever it was Rev Beresford wanted to show Aveena.

* * *

Rev Beresford was just reaching over to hand the book to Aveena when Simeon appeared in the doorway, the tea things rattling and chinking on the tray. At precisely the same moment, Swazzle, Pogmorton and Botchett burst through a small door in the wall next to the fireplace that apparently no-one had noticed was there, almost tumbling over each other as they skidded to a halt on the polished oak floorboards. Master Jamieson, it appeared, had decided discretion was the better part of valour and had vanished the second the door began to open.

Simeon let out a small squeak of surprise and dropped the tea tray. Rev Beresford jumped and put his back out, collapsing back into his armchair, grimacing. Aveena neatly snatched the book from mid-air as Rev Beresford dropped it, and in the aftermath of the tea things hitting the floor, no-one said anything for a moment or two.

Rev Beresford was the first to recover his composure, squinting over the top of his bi-focals at the intruders. Swazzle and Pogmorton stood stock still in front of the fireplace trying to look innocent, with Botchett a pace behind them.

'Good God above!' Rev Beresford stared excitedly at Botchett, 'Can it really be?' He wiped his glasses. 'A Gnomus vulgaris, right here in my front room? I had thought you extinct. What is your name, my fine fellow?'

'Now see here,' Botchett replied indignantly, shouldering his way forward. 'Who're you calling vulgaris? Gnomus Officinalis Mackemii, if you don't mind, bonny lad.' Botchett put his hands on his hips and puffed his chest out.

Rev Beresford just stared, his mouth hanging open in amazement.

'Aye,' chuckled Botchett, 'We still exist, like. Not the myth you thought I was, eh, bonny lad?'

Rev Beresford opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted by the front window to his rooms disintegrating in a blossoming cloud of glittering fragments of glass, which rained down over the assembled party. Instinctively, they covered their eyes with their hands.

Once the glass had settled and they dared to look again, there on the windowsill, framed by the remains of the broken window, stood six fairies, five of them levelling Banshee rifles at the assembled company while their leader strode into the room.

Pulling off her helmet, Twinkle advanced on Aveena, her eyes riveted to the book in Aveena's hands.

'I'll take that,' said Twinkle, holding out her hand, a grim look on her face.

Fabulous Flash Award

2010-07-25T00:01:00.003+01:00

Jon Strother, founding father of FridayFlash said recently:

“I have decided to start the Fabulous Flash Award to spotlight some folks I feel deserve recognition for their, well… fabulous flash fiction.”

I am so grateful to my good friends Marisa of Out of Order Alice, Maria of Mazzz in Leeds and Joely of Between the Words who have very kindly awarded me the Fabulous Flash Award; I'm still blushing. It has been an almost impossible task for me to pick only four recipients from from the very long list of fabulous FridayFlash writers to pass the award on to. My list is at the end of this post, but first, the rules:

Fabulous Flash Award:

acknowledge receiving the award in a blog post
link back to the person who awarded it
select four other fabulous flashers to receive the award to keep spreading the joy
write one or two short lines explaining why you’ve chosen each recipient
optionally (I know not everyone is on Twitter) tweet, “I just gave the Fabulous Flash Award to (name). They’re worth reading.” Include a shortened URL back to your post in the tweet.

I'd like to pass the Fabulous Flash Award on to, in no particular order:

Angie Capozello – writer of the Nox and Grimm flash fiction serial and owner of The Penny Dreadful, Angie's work is always a pleasure to read. Her Nox and Grimm stories are a particular favourite of mine, their fantasy world is incredibly rich and detailed, and Angie has a deft ability with cliffhanger endings.

Icy Sedgwick - a fellow Northener, Icy writes wonderful flash fiction stories (ask her about the parrot), the web serial “Tales from Vertigo City” and has recently begun audio podcasting her work through AudioBoo, which has the added advantage of me being able to listen to her stories in the mother tongue!

Emma Newman – a writer of sublime talent, Emma never fails to disappoint with any story of her's I've read. Her FridayFlash stories are a heady, ecclectic mix, and her Split Worlds serial is truly magical and captivating. Emma's short story club delivers a free short story to my inbox every month as well; what could be better than that?

Gracie Motley – beautifully crafted flash fiction stories that gently but inexorably draw you into their world are the hallmark of Gracie's work. She is also the writer of the on-going flash fiction fantasy serial “Fire and Water,” which is filled with dragons, shape-shifters and other magical types, and is always a pleasure to read.

Please take a minute to visit these excellent writers, you will not be dissapointed.

#FridayFlash: A Last Hurrah

2010-07-21T20:00:00.000+01:00

The Pixies will return next week, in the meantime the following story is my entry for Deanna Schrayer's Birthday Writing Contest. It is also the 100th post here at Future; Nostalgic, I can't think of a better post to mark my first century.

___________________________

Biting back the tears, Mary gazed deep into Tom's eyes. Birthdays weren't supposed to be like this, she thought, they were meant to be joyous occasions, not something papered over with a veneer of bonhomie. At least Tom seemed happy. It was sometimes hard to tell these days, but as she watched him sitting up in his hospice bed, slowly working his way through a steak dinner and sipping his wine, she began to relax a little.

'Lovely steak, dear,' Tom mumbled, 'My compliments to the chef.'

Mary smiled.

'Shame Sarah couldn't join us,' Tom continued, 'but I know she's busy, what with work and the kids.'

Mary felt the sudden stab of anxiety. 'I'm sure she'll be here tomorrow.'

'I hope so.' Tom took another mouthful of wine.

Mary did not respond. She was re-living the previous day's argument with her daughter, the reason why Sarah hadn't come to visit her father on his birthday.

'Mum, you can't!'

'But love, it's what he wants.'

'He can't!'

'He's old...'

'His mind's going. I'm having no part in this lunacy.'

Mary sighed. 'He's old,' she repeated gently, 'But his brain's as sharp as a tack. He knows his own mind.'

'But Mum!'

'No buts. If it's what your Dad wants for his birthday, why should I argue? Don't you think he's earned it?'

'But, what about the kids? What will they think? What do I tell them?'

'That their Granddad is old, he's happy, and that he knows what he wants.'

'He's dying, Mum. For God's sake!'

'No. It's decided. He's decided. I'm not going to argue with you any more. And don't you dare say anything to him about it. I will not have him upset.'

The last sentence hung in empty air, Sarah had already left, the slowly closing door the only reminder of her presence.

* * *

As Mary drove Tom out to the airfield the next morning, she didn't really expect to see Sarah's car in the car park, but still felt a pang of regret that it wasn't there when they pulled in. While Tom wheeled himself across to the hanger, she dialled Sarah's number on her mobile phone and stared up at the clear blue sky while the phone rang, and rang. Voicemail.

Mary dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief as she walked slowly over to the hanger. Tom, newly kitted out in blue overalls, was deep in conversation with a man in a pilot's uniform. Seeing her looking a bit lost, the pilot excused himself and walked over, extending his hand.

His grip was warm and reassuringly firm. 'Good morning, you must be Mary?'

'Yes. Is he...' she glanced over at Tom, '...is he...'

'He's just fine. We'll take good care of him. Don't you worry.' The pilot smiled, patting her hand. 'I'm Adam by the way, I'll be flying Tom today.'

There were so many questions Mary wanted to ask, but her voice had deserted her. Taking the silence for agreement, Adam continued. 'You can watch from the spectators' area,' he said steering her towards the door. 'It's over there,' he pointed, 'just where that little shelter is. The thing that looks like a bus stop.'

'Thank you, 'Mary murmured. 'I just wanted to ask...' she began, but Adam was already out of earshot, walking towards the plane that dominated the hanger. Mary wandered over to the spectators' area and settled herself on the bench inside the perspex shelter.

Her heart was in her mouth, white knuckles twisting the hankerchief into knots as the plane was pulled out of the hanger and started its engines. As it taxied across the apron, Mary saw it brake suddenly as a figure dashed out from the hanger and clambered aboard.

'Oh God,' she whispered, 'Please tell me there's something wrong with the plane so he can't go.'

The plane began moving again and was soon climbing into the azure morning sky, leaving Mary a lonely, disconsolate figure on the tarmac.

After what seemed like hours squinting fearfully into the sun, Mary watched as first one, then another, then finally a larger black speck emerged from the plane and began to fall away back to earth. When, a few seconds later, the canopies opened, Mary let out the breath that had been tightening her chest. Even she had to marvel at the sight of her husband, in tandem with his instructor floating serenely towards the large white “X” marked on the grass in front of her.

As Tom swooped in low for a landing, Mary caught sight of his face. He was grinning. A huge, sparking grin that lit up his face, and just for an instant she was transported back to the dance in the church hall, April 12th, 1940, when she'd seen that grin for the first time as the sergeant with paratrooper insignia on his shoulders had asked her to dance.

It wasn't until the canopies had been gathered in and Tom gently lowered back into his wheelchair by his instructor and the photographer, that Mary noticed the other figure again. She bent down to kiss Tom, pulling her helmet off and shaking out her long blonde hair as she straightened. Mary's heart leapt as Sarah turned towards her mother and waved, a mirror image of her father's grin lighting up her face.

Sarah ran over and hugged her Mother.

'I'm sorry, Mum, I nearly missed it,' she mumbled into Mary's neck. 'You were right though, I couldn't not go with Dad, could I?'

Mary held her daughter out at arm's length, gazing deeply into her daughter's blue eyes. 'Thank you,' she mouthed.

Mary pecked Tom on the cheek then stood back, not wanting to intrude on the memories her husband was excitedly sharing with his instructor.

'Dad, that was brilliant!' Sarah laughed, 'Bloody scary though.'

Tom roared with laughter at his daughter, a knowing, bittersweet look passing privately between him and Mary.

'Aye, kid,' he replied, 'As birthdays go, that one wasn't too bad.'

Audioboo and a Gargling Cat...

2010-07-19T08:00:00.002+01:00

Tony Noland, owner of the excellent writing blog Landless, has kindly offered me the opportunity to regale you all with my thoughts about Audioboo and what it could mean for authors of flash fiction. To discover what I think about it, and to find out where the gargling cat fits in, head on over to Landless and check out my post.

#FridayFlash: UCF Stories #15: Repercussions

2010-07-16T00:01:00.001+01:00

Repercussions is the fifteenth installment in my on-going flash fiction serial, The UCF Stories. If you'd like to read the story from the beginning, please go here.

____________________________________

Having at last captured the Wyrm, Botchett, Swazzle and Pogmorton are preparing to return with it to the mortal realm when they come under attack by a fairy patrol...

Hastily dismantling his apparatus, Botchett grabbed his backpack and pulled from it a three-barrelled shotgun-type contraption. Pumping a round into the shotgun's chamber, Botchett loosed off a shot as another five fairies, flying in a “V” formation, appeared close behind the first. A green-glowing pine cone arced through the air, exploding with a terrific bang amid the fairy flight. One of the fairies clutched her face and spiralled into the ground.

'By the god's balls, Botchett! Where did you learn to do that?' Swazzle was amazed.

Botchett laughed. 'I wasn't always a Wyrm catcher, bonny lad.' Turning to the fairies, he roared, 'Howay, ye little winged bastards, come and get it! Pilgrim's back, and there's gonna be some dying this fine morning, like.'

As the fairies began to return fire, rounds from their banshee rifles screaming overhead, Swazzle and Pogmorton joined the fray, loosing off shots from their wands while Botchett deafened them with the reports of his shotgun. Two more fairies went down under their combined fire before a banshee rifle round took Swazzle's hat clean off his head. Swazzle's black look by return, flew unerringly towards its mark and began to claw the fairy's face off; she was still desperately trying to pull it off her when she flew full tilt into a tree, her body landing with a sickening thud among its roots.

The remaining two fairies were by now adept at avoiding Botchett's shotgun blasts, and their fire was becoming dangerously accurate, so with Botchett holding onto the travelling box, Swazzle and Pogmorton grabbed him under the arms and dashed off in the direction of the portal, Delilah scampering along at their heels.

Tumbling back into the mortal realm, Swazzle, Pogmorton and Botchett ran up Hangman's Passage. As they reached the intersection with Gallows Close, Pogmorton skidded to a halt, motioning the others to do the same.

'What is it?' Swazzle whispered, flattening himself against the wall.

'Fairy,' Pogmorton pointed, 'In that tree in the churchyard.'

Swazzle whispered to Botchett to stay where he was with the travelling box while he and Pogmorton dealt with the problem. Seeing the grim determination on Swazzle's face, Botchett did not argue as the two Pixies blinked out of sight.

* * *

Twinkle was cold and stiff. She'd been hiding in the tree for hours, waiting for any sign of movement from within Goddess Rising. She knew the witch was in there, but there had been no indication she had gone anywhere near the book yet. It was up to Twinkle to stop her if she did, especially since the Pixies now had the walnut shell formerly entrusted to the keeping of that idiot Simeon. At least while the shell's contents were in his possession, no one would have suspected the awesome power it held.

Hunkering down against the trunk of the Beech tree, Twinkle pulled her cloak more tightly around her and tried to get comfortable. It was a lost cause. There was bound to be movement soon, she thought, then I can get out of here.

* * *

With a soft “pop,” Swazzle and Pogmorton blinked into existence next to one of the huge stone buttresses holding up the church wall. After checking their arrival had not been observed, Pogmorton gestured to Swazzle and they tiptoed quickly across to the base of the tree in which Twinkle was hiding.

'We need a diversion,' Pogmorton mouthed to Swazzle.

Swazzle winked and, working his throat as though he was retching, carefully spat something into his hand. Swazzle took a step back to check his aim, then lobbed the content of his hand gently up towards where Twinkle crouched.

At the top of its arc, and just behind Twinkle's head, Swazzle's larynx began to move. 'BOO!' it shouted, and the Pixies had to dive out of the way as Twinkle jumped, lost her footing and tumbled to the ground, fighting in vain to free her wings from the swaddling folds of her cloak before she hit the ground.

Twinkle landed at their feet with a thud, groaned and lay still. Swazzle deftly caught his voice box and stuffed it back into his mouth as Pogmorton bent over to see if Twinkle was badly injured, or worse.

'Out for the count,' he announced with satisfaction.

'Not dead then?' Swazzle squeaked, hands working to adjust his throat. He coughed then continued in his normal voice, 'It's Twinkle!'

'Aye, it is,' replied Pogmorton, 'And no, she's not dead, just unconscious. ' He clapped Swazzle on the back, 'Well done by the way, throwing your voice like that was perfect, just perfect.'

Swazzle bowed low, grinning. 'So, what do we do now?'

'Get Botchett and the Wyrm inside sharpish before she comes round.' With a soft pop they disappeared.

* * *

Master Jamieson's front door, referred to by the Pixies as the “tradesmen's entrance,” though not in Jamieson's presence, had barely closed behind Botchett when Twinkle moaned and slowly began to move, holding the back of her head as pain arced through her skull. She still wasn't sure exactly what had happened, but it smelled to her like a Pixie trick, and she strongly suspected which pixies were responsible.

Getting gingerly to her feet, Twinkle neatly folded her cloak and, after a few tentative flaps, took to the air in search of a better vantage point.

#FridayFlash: UCF Stories #14: The Trap is Sprung

2010-07-09T00:01:00.000+01:00

You can read the UCF Stories from the beginning here.

____________

As Pogmorton crept slowly forward, the Wyrm gave no indication it was aware of his approach, its attention focussed completely on the fairies' frantic fortification of their border. Creeping as close as he dared, Pogmorton did as Botchett had instructed and whispered, 'Psst! Wyrmy.' Immediately he sensed the Wyrm stiffen, its tail stopped swishing from side to side and he was sure it turned its head imperceptibly towards him, but when it made no move in his direction, Pogmorton repeated the call, a little louder this time. Still nothing.

I must be mad, thought Pogmorton as, wiping the sweat from his palms, he inched the barbed pole forward and, Botchett's instructions ringing in his head, worked the tip between the Wyrm's scales and prodded forcefully.

The effect was instantaneous. Rearing and snorting, the Wyrm turned, steam jetting from its nostrils. An eerie, visceral screech escaped from deep within its throat.

On the border to the fairy kingdom the prisoners and their guards froze in terror. Pogmorton caught only the briefest glimpse of a familiar face among the fairies' work gangs before diving out of the way as the Wyrm lunged, it's huge shovel-shaped head slamming into the earth inches from where he'd been crouching, clods of earth flying in all directions.

Scrambling to his feet, Pogmorton took off at a sprint, jinking this way and that. A terrible rumbling sound filling his ears as, giving chase, the Wyrm bulldozed its way through earth and vegetation. Glancing over his shoulder, Pogmorton saw steam being sucked back into the Wyrm's nostrils, a sure sign according to Botchett, that things were about to get hotter.

Just as he threw himself behind an outcrop of rock, the Wyrm began a long rumbling exhalation, and liquid fire splattered against the rock and surrounding vegetation, barely missing Pogmorton's body and singeing the hair on the right side of his head and burning away the tip of his pointed Pixie hat.

The Wyrm smashed its head down onto the rock, dust and stone chipping raining down over Pogmorton. He rolled quickly to his right and, just for an instant, came eye to eye with the beast. Time seemed to slow as Pogmorton took in the baleful glare of a huge reptilian eye, centuries of pain and fury seeming to exude from within the creature's soul. Pogmorton felt a stab of pity at the sight of scars from old injuries around the beast's head, then the Wyrm slowly bared its fangs and Pogmorton's nose was assaulted by the stench of rotting flesh, the remains of a fairy's arm stuck between two of the creature's wickedly sharp teeth.

Great slimy gobs of saliva dribbled slowly from the Wyrm's mouth onto Pogmorton's trousers. He winced as the acidic drool began to burn his leg and saw the Wyrm's eye snap instantly into focus as he moved. Scrabbling desperately backwards, Pogmorton jumped to his feet and dashed away towards Botchett's trap, the Wyrm snapping sideways at his retreating form.

* * *

'Here they come,' yelled Swazzle.

As Pogmorton streaked under Botchett's net, Botchett and Swazzle took up their positions. The Wyrm, now fully focussed on its Pixie prey, followed Pogmorton straight into the mouth of the trap, but it was only Botchett and Swazzle's quick reactions that avoided it barrelling out of the other end before the net could be released. Howling in rage and pain, the Wyrm thrashed as Botchett's net tightened itself, biting cruelly into the beast's hide. Swazzle and Botchett scurried this way and that, pegging the net down until, at last, the Wyrm lay immobile, seething with impotent anger. The net was designed to be tightest around its head, preventing the Wyrm from using its fiery breath.

Once the Wyrm had been contained, Swazzle and Botchett wandered over to where Pogmorton stood, doubled over, sucking in great lungfuls of air while his clothes smouldered.

'Well done, bonny lad!' Botchett beamed, clapping Pogmorton on the back. 'You're a natural. Couldn't have done it better myself, like.' He pulled a flask of dandelion whisky from his pocket, 'Here you go, looks like you could do with a drop.'

Botchett turned to Swazzle, 'Keep an eye on him, like,' he said quietly, 'While I go and sort the travelling box out.'

Swazzle, puzzled, turned to find silent tears streaming down the Pogmorton's face.

'By the gods, what's up? You're all right, I'm all right, so is Botchett, and we caught the bloody Wyrm.'

'They have her,' Pogmorton sniffled, 'The fairies have Rushalka.' He caught sight of Swazzle's shocked expression. 'I thought she was dead. We all did. How was I to know what had really happened?'

Swazzle whistled in disbelief. 'I had no idea...' he began, then paused, the colour draining from his face. 'You hear that?' He cocked his head to one side as the familiar droning grew louder.

'Fairies.' He turned, 'Botchett...'

'I hear 'em, bonny lad.' Botchett had set up what looked like the horn from an old gramophone on top of the travelling box and was frantically turning the handle on the side of the box. The Wyrm was drawn gradually from under the net, shrinking as it went, the tip of its tail had just disappeared into the mouth of the horn when the first fairy appeared on the horizon.

Commenting Problems on Blogger

2010-07-06T10:41:00.007+01:00

Apparently, Blogger is having an "issue" with comments. Needless to say, I am not a happy bunny as the last five people who commented on my previous #Zombieluv #FridayFlash post have had their comments eaten. Rumour has it that Blogger are working on a fix, though I have yet to see any official word about this.

Therefore, since I'm still getting email notifications of new comments, I intend manually adding them should I need to. Having said that, I did just that this morning and, whilst the comment count on the post has not updated, if you open the Post a Comment link in a new tab on Firefox, some of those comments do appear. (edit: not any more they don't!)

If anyone has a fix for this, lemme know!

Please keep leaving me comments, and I'll use the manual fix below until such time as the problem is fixed. Thank you for your patience (edit: It seems, as of 12noon GMT that Anonymous comments are getting through).

So, here, without further ado, are those comments Blogger keeps eating, along with my replies:

Icy Sedgwick said:

Wow, you just took the concept and ran with it! This is by far one of my favourites - such a different way of looking at it! Awesome tale.

Jane Travers said:

Fantastic! Loved the idea of the zombie family, pets and all. :)

That kiss at the end sounds a bit like my first snog, though... *shudders*

jdanetyler said:

Great job on this! A whole family of rotten creeps. Literally. :) Nice job!

Laurita said :

ahhh, it does the heart good. Formaldehyde breath was a nice touch. :)

Karen from Mentor said:

I only read Carrie's comment. oh man. ECHOES CARRIE with feeling.

Good. hurl. eyeball in dinner.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgggggggggggggggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Man I must really love you guys.

In reply, Sam said:

Icy - Thanks so much! I wanted to do something different as I must confess to not knowing much about "classic" zombies. I'm so pleased you enjoyed what I did with it.

Jane - Thanks for the lovely feedback, but possibly a shade too much information?! ;)

jdantyler - Thanks, I'm glad you enjoyed my story.

Laurita - The formaldehyde breath was a flash of inspiration mid-way through the writing of this story, I'm pleased you enjoyed it. Thanks for your comment.

Karen - LMAO!!! Thanks for the great feedback. :)

Update 13.54 GMT:

Seems the problem still exists, as the following comments didn't make it through, even though I still got email notifications:

Cathy Olliffe said:

It happens to me, too, sometimes. Sort of goes in waves. I won't have a problem for a long time, then it will arrive sporadically and then disappear.
I also have problems commenting sometimes. I'll write a long comment only to have it not post. After a few frustrations I've learned to copy the comment before I hit post. That way if it has screwed up, I can try again with only hitting paste, rather than re-writing.
Good luck with the prob! I like to imagine that I have twice as many comments, only half of them were eaten by Blogger.
Which makes me think: perhaps Blogger is a zombie.

Mari said:

That's weird... The commenting seems to be working fine back at Randomities...

I hope this problem will be solved soon! *hugs*

Update 08.50 GMT 07/07/2010

Well, as of this morning, all the lost comments appear to have returned. Phew! Here's hoping this is an end to the problem. Thanks for all your messages of support.

#FridayFlash: Zombie Luv Flash Fiction Contest: For The Love of Mike!

2010-07-02T00:01:00.003+01:00

Well Mari, this is what happens when you talk me into something. Don't say I didn't warn you!

__________________

'Ma! He's doing it again!'

Maggie sighed and, apologising to the spirits, opened a door in her circle, stepped through and carefully closed it again behind her. Picking up the candle she'd left burning on the dresser, Maggie hurried through the darkened cottage to the kitchen.

Bartholomew stood on his hind legs in his cage on the counter top, nose and whiskers quivering as Maggie snapped on the light and set the candle down on the kitchen table. Bramble sat on the floor staring intently at the mouse in its cage, swishing his tale back and forth and moaning, flexing his claws against the tiles. Mike was over by the sink, giggling.

'See Ma, Bramble's at it again,' Mike slurred.

'Bramble! What have I told you?' Maggie scolded. Bramble turned, fixing her with a pair of milky, dead eyes.

'Yes, you!' she continued. 'Leave that mouse alone. Come on, shift.' She flapped her hands at the cat, who lurched unsteadily to its feet and shuffled stiffly across the floor towards Mike, the tip of his tail hanging at a strange but jaunty angle. Midway across the floor, Bramble's left ear quivered then dropped off onto the tiles.

'Oh not again,' Maggie muttered, hunting through a drawer for the glue.

Bramble let out a low, moaning meow as he approached Mike. Mike grinned a lopsided grin.

'You hear that?' He sounds like me.' Mike stuck his hands out in front of him and shuffled towards the cat. 'M-O-U-S-S-S-S-E,' he moaned, and even Maggie had to smile. It had never crossed her mind when she'd raised Bramble that a zombie cat would retain the instincts it'd had in life.

Mike stooped awkwardly to pick Bramble up and Maggie froze. As he straightened up she released the breath she hadn't been aware she was holding, nothing important had come adrift. While Mike wasn't looking, she poked his eyebrow out of sight under the table with her toe; she'd stick it back on later while he was sleeping.

Seeing the love Mike still had for Bramble brought a lump to Maggie's throat, casting her instantly back to the night of the accident. She'd been driving them back from the vet's after getting Bramble's booster injection when their car had been T-boned by a drunk driver in a horse box. Mike and Bramble had died instantly, yet she'd walked away without a scratch.

It had taken her months to perfect the spell, Bartholomew was proof of her first successful attempt. She preferred not to think about the previous ones, and wouldn't be caught outside after dark for love nor money. Even so, it was neither as simple, nor as quiet a procedure as she'd thought, so Maggie had sold up and moved to the cottage – nothing for miles around in all directions except fields. The perfect place to re-build her family.

She'd done the best she could with Mike, even shopping online for a preparation popular among undertakers, which really did seem to help arrest the decay. It had even seemed to help Mike retain his speech, at least for a few weeks, but recently she'd noticed his vocabulary diminishing and he seemed to be having increasing trouble forming words. Regular baths of strong-smelling herbs helped with the odour, whether Mike enjoyed them or not. The only thing that saddened her was she could do nothing about the ugly gash running across Mike's face, loosening his right eye, which had ended up in his dinner on a few occasions.

Mike seemed happy to be back, though isolated as he was in their new home, he was lonely. When the nightmares had got so bad he'd stumbled into her room and tried to wrench the top of her head off, Maggie had resolved to get him another pet. A zombie mouse was hardly the pet for a growing lad she thought, so Maggie had performed the ritual again to bring back Mike's beloved Bramble.
Seeing Mike cuddling Bramble and tickling him behind his remaining ear had Maggie all misty eyed. She recalled vividly as she dabbed her eyes on her sleeve, their first night together again as a family. A pet-food commercial had played on TV featuring a small boy and his cat. Mike had dissolved into hysterical moaning, which Maggie took for laughter, and when she'd asked him what was so funny, he'd fixed her with his lopsided grin and moaned, 'My cat loves braiinnnsss, and I love my cat.' He'd even emphasised the “t” of cat, just like the little boy in the advert.

* * *

Completing the ritual for the final time, Maggie exhaled slowly as the body of her husband William, dead from leukaemia these past four years, began to twitch within the circle. As she lay down next to him, Maggie prayed this ritual would work. William had been dead longer than anyone, or anything, else she'd raised, and she'd had the devil's own job exhuming his body and driving it to the cottage by herself.

A single tear slid down Maggie's cheek as the spell took the last of her life-force to power William's awakening. It would be okay, it had to be, she thought as her heart finally stuttered and stopped, she'd built into the spell that she would join him, an undead wife to an undead husband, undead mother to an undead son. The spell had been complex to construct, but after all, a growing boy needed both his parents. William's eyes flickered open slowly, his head lolling to the side where Maggie lay entwined in his arm. Recognition seemed to flicker across his face.

'Hello, love,' he moaned softly, planting a passionate, foetid kiss on her lips, his cold, clammy tongue tentatively exploring her mouth. Maggie shuddered with elation – it had worked, it had! Her family was complete again.

We will have to do something about that formaldehyde breath though, Maggie thought as she returned the kiss.

__________________

Guidelines:

Word count: maximum 1000

The story must be a romance between two zombies. Make it as horrific as you like.

Stories containing animal cruelty, torture, graphic sex or violence, any form of exaltation of violence, racism or other forms of prejudice will be immediately disqualified.

Post your entry on your own blog, with a title resembling this:

Zombie Luv Flash Fic Contest: Story Title

Leave your story title and a link to the story entry post as a comment at mari's randomities: http://marisrandomities.blogspot.com

Copy and paste the contest logo and the guidelines at the end of your entry post.

#FridayFlash: UCF Stories #13: Wyrm Hunting

2010-06-18T08:49:00.000+01:00

A light drizzle began to fall, the kind of soft rain that soaks everything in minutes without appearing to be raining at all. Swazzle and Pogmorton sat hunched under a Hawthorn bush, large drops of water running periodically from its leaves straight down Pogmorton's neck; he was beginning to think Wyrm-hunting was not quite as exciting as Botchett would have him believe.

'Bugger!' he grumbled as another drop fell with unerring accuracy into the gap between his neck and his collar. 'It doesn't seem to matter where I sit, I'm getting soaked. You'd think these raindrops were doing it on purpose.'

Swazzle chuckled.

'It's all right for you,' continued Pogmorton, 'the smell's probably keeping the rain away from you.' His stomach rumbled.

'By the gods, Botchett, I nearly swallowed my tongue!' exclaimed Swazzle as Botchett's head appeared between the branches of a nearby Blackthorn bush.

'Hehe,' replied Botchett. 'Time we were about our business, like. The Wyrm lies not half a league from here,' he paused, 'One thing first though...'

Botchett dug around in his backpack, emerging with a small sachet wrapped in muslin, which he instructed Swazzle to rub all over himself and then tuck away in an inside pocket.

'Ancient Gnomish magics?' Swazzle asked as he rubbed the sachet over his clothes.

'No, bonny lad, it's some of Mistress Botchett's pot pourri. To help with the smell, like.'

Swazzle scowled. Pogmorton collapsed in a fit of silent giggles.

'Right then, this is the plan...'

Botchett proceeded to explain how he intended to capture the Wyrm, illustrating his lecture with diagrams scratched in the earth at his feet with a stick. Swazzle and Pogmorton looked on with increasing unease, it appeared someone would be required to get rather close to the beast in order to lure it into the trap.

Swazzle and Pogmorton exchanged glances. Botchett was obviously too old and they doubted whether he would be able to move quickly enough to avoid being eaten. That meant one of them would have to be the bait. As if anticipating their thoughts, Botchett looked pointedly at Pogmorton.

'Err, no...'

'It'll have to be you, bonny lad. I can't move fast enough any more.' Botchett looked apologetic and patted his leg. 'Rheumatism, bonny lad. And before you say it, it's no good sending Captain Swazzle, ol' Wyrmy won't be able to get his scent, even with that pot pourri, like.'

Swazzle beamed as he clapped Pogmorton on the shoulder in congratulation. Pogmorton looked anything but relieved, and was still grumbling as the three of them set up Botchett's Wyrm trap.

A large silvery net was strung from the trees just to the east of the ruins of the Pixie citadel. Strong iron pegs were driven into the ground at intervals along its perimeter ready for ropes to be attached, and Botchett closely supervised the set-up of a nefarious looking, box-like contraption at the end of the net furthest away from the anticipated direction of the Wyrm's arrival.

Once preparations were complete, Botchett pulled from his backpack three unfeasibly long iron-bound staves, topped at each end by wickedly barbed iron points.

'Just on the off-chance, like,' he said, handing one each to Swazzle and Pogmorton. 'Jam it into the roof of Wyrmy's mouth,' he mimed a demonstration, 'and you should have time to get clear, like. With a bit of luck.'

Swazzle and Pogmorton did not look the least bit reassured; no-one had mentioned any possibility of being eaten.

Satisfied with the preparations, Botchett gave Pogmorton his final instructions then settled down to wait with Swazzle as Pogmorton crept quietly away in the direction of where Botchett had last sighted the Wyrm.

Once Pogmorton was out of sight, Swazzle turned to Botchett. 'What are his chances?'

'Can he run, bonny lad?'

'Err...I think so. We Pixies can transport ourselves if we can't run fast enough.'

'No good. The Wyrm'll lose the scent if you try those sort of shenanigans, like.'

Swazzle looked even more worried. He crossed his fingers and muttered a quiet prayer to the gods for Pogmorton's safe return.

* * *

'Yes, she's here...yes, just as you said she would...Where? Downstairs in the shop with Simeon...' Rev. Beresford took a mouthful of scotch from his glass, listening with increasing irritation to the caller. 'Yes, yes, of course I will.' He replaced the heavy Bakelite receiver with a sigh. This was likely to become complicated.

A wave of light-headedness washed over him and he had to grab hold of the back of his armchair and set his whisky glass down carefully on the side table. Hobbling over to the large antique sideboard that occupied the wall next to the fireplace, Rev. Beresford took from his pocket a small brass key and, with shaking hands, unlocked the mahogany box on top of the sideboard.

He felt faint as he fumbled to open the box, sweat running down his forehead partly obscuring his vision, it made him squint as he regarded the wild-eyed, emaciated fairy secured within the box. Below the fairy an inscription in copperplate handwriting read, “Fairy: Oberon, captured circa 1930.”

'Sorry, old lad,' murmured Rev Beresford as he leaned into the box, the fairy recoiling as far as its iron shackles would allow. As he ran his tongue gently over the fairy's wings it tried to growl and spit but was restrained by a padded gag; all that escaped was an angry whimper. Locking the box once again, Rev Beresford could already feel the fairy dust beginning to work, and with a welcome euphoria he sank gratefully into his armchair before the fire.

* * *

Pogmorton picked his way gingerly towards the spot where Botchett said he had seen the Wyrm, dropped to his belly and crawled slowly to the top of the small rise. From the crest he could see past the forest edge to the Fairy kingdom's border and the fairies' frantic preparations. Closer, just the other side of the slope, lay the Wyrm, intermittent wisps of smoke rising from its nostrils, the tip of its tail twitching back and forth like a hunting cat.

Pogmorton took a deep breath and wriggled forward.

#FridayFlash: UCF Stories #12: Early Morning Call

2010-06-11T00:01:00.001+01:00

A small pink teddy bear, resplendent in top hat and tails, tap-danced along the counter twirling an ebony cane. The bear's footwear, which looked more like coal miner's pit boots than tap shoes, set up a staccato tap-tap-tap that made Simeon cringe, each step echoing like a kettle drum inside his head. Only when the bear began bashing the tip of its cane against his forehead and shouting, 'Are you in there?' in a soft but insistent Irish brogue, did it begin to dawn on Simeon that he may, just possibly, be dreaming.

Jerking awake, Simeon was afforded the luxury of a few seconds grace before the full horror of his predicament hit him like a runaway train and he only just managed to lean over before he vomited into the waste paper bin behind the shop counter. The shell, he'd lost the fairy's walnut shell. The knocking persisted while Simeon dry-heaved, two empty whisky bottles mocking him from the bottom of the bin.

'Are you in there? Simeon!'

'Shit.' Simeon dragged himself upright and made his way along the edge of the counter, hand over hand, gingerly towards the front door of the shop. His head throbbed and he still felt queasy, stomach acid burning his throat and leathery tongue as he tried to fathom who could be at the door at this ungodly hour. Risking a glance at his watch, Simeon revised his estimate of ungodly, it was 11.36am. He wondered why his right foot was cold.

The knocking continued.

'Alright, alright, I'm coming,' Simeon croaked as he shuffled nearer the door. 'Just stop that god-awful racket. I'll be there in a minute.'

The knocking stopped as Simeon finally reached the door.

Drawing the bolts sounded like rifle shots inside his head, and when he bent down to undo the bottom one, Simeon was hit with a wave of dizziness and was only able to keep his balance by hanging onto the bookcase by the door. He noticed one of his bunny slippers was missing, that explained the cold foot. Eased the door open to the limit of the security chain Simeon peered into sunlit street beyond. He wished he hadn't.

'Uncle Simeon, are you okay?'

Forcing his eyes to focus, and shading them with his free hand, Simeon squinted at the young woman standing on the doorstep. He took in the black leather biker jacket, the jeans and heavy square-toed biker boots before his aching brain could process the word “uncle.” As he squinted past the mane of curly brown hair to the woman's face realisation dawned, confirmed when she spoke.

'Uncle Simeon, it's me, Aveena. Moira and Connor's daughter. So, are you going to let me in, or what?'

Simeon shut the door, wondering as he fumbled with the chain whether this was going to be a good idea or not. Dragging the door open again, he winced as the bottom edge caught on the metal sill, squeaking like fingernails on a blackboard. Aveena squeezed past him, her enormous rucksack almost catching Simeon full in the face as she navigated through the piles of books just inside the door, her white stick beating out a gentle rhythm against the linoleum floor tiles. Simeon closed and carefully locked the door behind her.

'You do know there's a rat sitting on the counter over there, don't you, Uncle Simeon?'

'Eh? Oh, err...yeah,' Simeon muttered. 'Don't worry about him, that's only Crowley.' He paused. 'Hang on, how do you know...'

'I can see his aura.'

'Oh. Is he reading?'

'Yes. It looks like...,' Aveena's sightless eyes narrowed, '...Practical Ceremonial Magic, a Beginner's Gui...'

'Bloody rat,' Simeon interrupted as he pushed gently past Aveena, snatched the book up from in front of Crowley and slammed it shut. Simeon winced.

'What have I told you?' Simeon growled at the rat. 'Just because you got yourself reincarnated as a rat doesn't mean...' Simeon paused as sweat broke out across his forehead. His legs felt rubbery and he only just made it onto the stool behind the counter before they gave way.

Crowley grinned.

Aveena dumped her rucksack next to the counter, and headed for the kitchen, calling out over her shoulder, 'I'm after putting the kettle on. I'm parched, so I am. Tea, Uncle Simeon?' As she filled the kettle, Aveena could still hear Simeon berating the rat in the other room.

A mug of strong tea and a handful of paracetamol later and Simeon was beginning to feel a little more human. Aveena had even managed to locate his missing slipper, which she found on top of the bookcase behind the counter. In response to Simeon's question, Aveena explained that all things have an aura and it was by these auras that she was able to navigate. Living things and books, especially old and esoteric books, had the strongest auras, she said, which was why she had no trouble finding her way around the shop.

'So,' began Simeon, 'What brings you all the way over here? You didn't make the trip just to visit your old uncle Simeon, surely? I haven't seen you since you were, let me think...'

Aveena looked suddenly serious, 'Six, Uncle Simeon. I was six last time I saw you. And you're not that old.'

She contemplated the dregs of tea swirling round the bottom of her mug. 'I did mean to come and see you, but you're right, this isn't just a social call.'

A single tear ran down Aveena's cheek.

'Something's wrong, isn't it?'

'It's Mam,' Aveena sniffled. 'She's...she's...dead. Da too.'

'How...'

'Murdered.' Aveena threw her arms around his neck and sobbed on his shoulder.

It took Simeon a moment or two to return the hug, awkwardly rubbing Aveena's back and trying to make the right soothing noises, while reeling from the news his only sister and her husband were dead, and the thought that Aveena was leaving a trail of snot on the shoulder of his best work jacket.

_______________

Thanks for stopping by to read my #FridayFlash. "Early Morning Call" is the twelfth instalment of my flash fiction serial "The UCF Stories." If you'd like to read the serial from the beginning, the first instalment is here.

Please also check out the rest of this week's #FridayFlash stories (just click the #FridayFlash graphic in my blog's sidebar), and don't forget to check out the #FridayFlash hashtag on Twitter.

#FridayFlash: UCF Stories #11: Walk Softly And Carry A Long Glove

2010-06-03T21:22:00.004+01:00

Swazzle and Pogmorton, with Botchett and Delilah in tow, crept down Gallows Close, into Hangman's Passage and up to the wall that marked the end of the alley. Swazzle pulled from his pocket an irregularly-shaped lump of white chalk and scratched the outline of a door on the brickwork then tapped it twice with his wand. At once the bricks shimmered as the portal sprang into being and, with a quick glance over their shoulders, they stepped through into the Magical Realm.

All about them lay devastation. Pre-dawn mist mingled with the smoke that curled into the lightening sky from the smouldering remains of the Pixie citadel. Uprooted trees and deep gouges in the earth marked the passage of the Wyrm, making the landscape look completely alien.

Botchett sucked breath in through his teeth. 'It does seem a bit narked, your Wyrm. This is the worst Wrym damage I've seen in a long while, like.'

'Which way, Master Botchett?,' asked Swazzle. Botchett pointed and set off towards the east, skirting the worst of the damage as he sought a path towards the Wyrm. Delilah scurried along in his wake, her nose quivering at the myriad of scents hanging in the air, pervaded throughout by the powerful scent of their quarry.

'I meant to ask you,' Swazzle whispered to Botchett, 'What exactly did happen with Jamieson and Delilah? I didn't think spirits had much to fear from animals.'

'Ah, well,' began Botchett with a low chuckle, 'the last time Master Jamieson got anywhere near Delilah, she err...stuck her nose up his kilt, like.'

Swazzle looked blank.

'It wouldn't have been so bad,' Botchett continued, 'if Master Jamieson wasn't a proper Scottish spirit, if you catch my drift bonny lad, and shrews didn't have a psychic bite as well as an ordinary one. He wasn't walking straight for weeks, like.'

Swazzle cringed as Pogmorton dissolved into a fit of silent giggles. Jamieson may be a bit straight-laced and miserable, Swazzle thought, but even he didn't deserve that.

* * *

The Wyrm slithered slowly to the forest edge, undulating waves of muscle propelling it silently through the trees. It paused where the trees ended, working its muscles to steadily sink into the soft earth until only the tips of its dorsal spines and the top of its shovel-shaped head remained visible. Here it waited, powerful eyesight taking in the frantic preparations along the border of the fairy kingdom. Fairies flew this way and that, beating work gangs of prisoners so they dug faster, excavating ditches, planting sharpened tree trunks and hastily constructing barriers of thorn bushes and, it seemed, whatever else was to hand.

A fairy sentry buzzed past, scanning the tree line for signs of movement. The Wyrm snapped its nostrils shut, the last wisps of smoke dissipating in the gathering dawn as the fairy approached. Sensing something, the fairy flew past, wheeled and returned. She was staring intently at the exact spot where the it lay when the Wyrm's sticky tongue shot out, caught her full in the chest, and reeled her into its mouth. She only had time for a soft squeak before the Wyrm's jaws snapped shut and it lay, eyes half shut, savouring the flavour of its latest snack as it rolled the fairy around its mouth, sucking out the juice.

* * *

'Shit!' grumbled Swazzle as he tripped over something and fell full-length into the stinking pile that filled the path. He held his nose. 'By the Gods! That's a bit ripe. Botchett, is that what I think...'

'Wyrm shite? Aye, it is, bonny lad' Botchett grabbed a long leather gauntlet from his pack, pulling it on before helping Swazzle up. Thrusting his arm into the steaming heap almost up to his armpit, Botchett rooted around for a while before pulling a long thick-set bone out of the heap. He sniffed it.

'It's been catching pixies.' Tears streamed down his face from the smell. 'And judging by the warmth, this is fairly fresh so we must be close, like.'

Swazzle heaved into the bushes.

'What now?' whispered Pogmorton turning an unhealthy shade of green at the sight of the bone's naked whiteness.

'Well, bonny lad, now it's time for softly-softly-catchy-Wyrmy.' Botchett winked. 'You lads wait here while I go and have a scout about, like.'

Swazzle and Pogmorton settled themselves under a Hawthorn bush as Botchett and Delilah crept away into the forest.

'Swazzle, mate,' hissed Pogmorton, 'Would you mind awfully swapping places?'

'Eh? Why?'

'I really need to sit upwind of you. Nothing personal.'

'Charming,' muttered Swazzle as he changed places.

'Oh, it's not that, it's just the smell of that, err... stuff is making me feel hungry.'

#FridayFlash: Constructive Criticism

2010-05-28T00:01:00.002+01:00

The Pixies are taking a break this week owing to my having spent much of the past few days hanging around doctors' waiting rooms (and no, not for the purpose of indulging my penchant for ancient magazines!). They will return soon, but in the meantime...

_____

I bumped into an old friend last week, and over a cup of tea happened to mention my writing.

'Oh, you've become a writer now?' she asked dismissively, 'When did that happen?'

I know I hadn't seen her for a while, but she made it sound as though I'd been in for major surgery, or had grown an extra head or something. I don't know what annoyed her more, that I'd started writing, or that I hadn't told her; she never had the courage to try, you see.

'Well don't expect much from it,' she continued. 'There are thousands of people out there who think they're God's gift to literature, most of them starving in garrets, or wherever writers, err...'

'Write?' I ventured.

'You'll never make any money at it,' she called after me as I went to put the kettle on for a second cup.

She stopped criticising after her second cup of tea, which might have something to do with what I slipped into it.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I have a new chapter of my novel to write, The Life and Times of a Tea-Drinking Serial Killer won't write itself. That's only a working title, if you can think of a better one, I'm open to constructive criticism; you're welcome to pop round, we can discuss it over a nice cup of tea.

#FridayFlash: UCF Stories #10: Professional Services.

2010-05-21T00:01:00.004+01:00

I'm trying something a little different this week by attempting to incorporate dialect into my writing. It's not something I've tried before, so please let me know what you think, and now, without further delay, on with the story...

_________

As the last of the refugees trudged down the stairs into the space beneath the basement of Goddess Rising, Master Botchett nudged his wife.

'I think we're going to need more pease pudding, pet.'

'Alright, bonny lad, I've only got one pair of hands,' she glanced over her shoulder at the arriving Pixies, 'Oh, look at the state of them, and those poor bairns.' She returned to stirring the cooking pot vigorously.

Catching sight of Swazzle and Pogmorton, Botchett called to them through a gap in the curtains that separated his living quarters from the rest of the basement.

'Howay in lads, and take the weight off your feet.'

Swazzle and Pogmorton collapsed wearily into chairs beside the range where Mistress Botchett stirred her pot. A long scrubbed oak table occupied much of the space, groaning under the weight of platters of sausages, dishes of pease pudding and piles of flat breads. Swazzle's stomach growled noisily.

'Hungry?' Botchett regarded the two Pixies, 'Of course you are. Here,' he added, loading two plates with food, 'get that down you then you can give me all the news, like.'

As Swazzle and Pogmorton began to devour their meals, Botchett took out a bottle from the dresser and poured them each a large measure of dandelion whisky. He pushed the horn cups over to them.

'This'll put hairs on your chest!'

Pogmorton spluttered as the yellow, fiery liquid hit his stomach, his eyes rolling right round in their sockets.

'By the gods!' he coughed, 'that's powerful stuff.'

'Aye, it is that, bonny lad,' chuckled Botchett, 'Made by my own fair hand an' all.'

Swazzle looked suspiciously at his glass before taking a tentative sip.

'Gawd!' he mumbled, 'My lips have gone numb. What do you put in this stuff?'

Botchett merely tapped the side of his nose and winked.

'So, Cap'n Pogmorton, what news from the front?'

Pausing for a moment to marshal his thoughts, Pogmorton related how the Wyrm had all but destroyed the Pixie kingdom and how it seemed hell-bent on going after the fairy castle next.

'Aye, well, it would do,' remarked Botchett.

Swazzle and Pogmorton looked puzzled.

'It would do, seeing as it was them fairies what imprisoned it in the first place, like,' Botchett pulled out a small clay pipe, lit it with a taper from the range and sucked greedily till it was well alight. Clouds of noxious smoke billowed upwards, making Swazzle's and Pogmorton's eyes water. Mistress Botchett appeared immune to the effects of her husband's pipe.

'That was hundreds of years ago, mind,' Botchett gestured with his pipe, 'I was only a bairn at the time, but I remember Grandpa telling me all about it. Seems the fairies did a deal with the Night Packers, summat that stopped the Wyrms seeing in the dark, and managed to bind the whole lot of 'em.'

'Grandpa was there,' he continued, 'got himself talked into helping catch 'em. Regretted it bitterly like, when he saw what happened,' Botchett took a long draw of his pipe, 'He was never the same afterwards. Here,' he pulled a battered journal from a dresser shelf, 'it's all in here, if you can read the writing. My eyes aren't what they were, bonny lad, but you're welcome to have a look if you want.'

Swazzle took the journal. The leather binding was scuffed and ancient, but the crest on the front cover remained just about legible, “L. Botchett and Sons, Purveyors of Worm Handling Services, est. 994 AD. A Chronicle,” he read.

'Gnome Worm Handlers?!' Swazzle exclaimed.

'Why aye man,' replied Botchett, puffing his chest out, 'I come from a long line of gnome worm handlers, bonny lad. In fact, what I don't know about wrangling worms, isn't worth knowing, not,' he paused thoughtfully, 'not that there's much call for it nowadays, like.'

Swazzle and Pogmorton exchanged glances.

'Are you thinking,' began Swazzle.

'Certainly am,' said Pogmorton trying to contain his excitement. 'I don't suppose,' he continued.

'That I'd give you a hand to sort out your current worm trouble, like?' chuckled Botchett, 'Bonny lad, I thought you'd never ask. Mother,' he called to his wife, 'Where's me worm catching gear?'

'Under the stairs, love,' she called back, dumping a large pile of pease pudding into a serving dish. 'Eee pet, you will be careful, won't you? You're not as young as you used to be.'

'Aah, hadaway, man woman, I'll be careful. It'll take more an' a Worm to do me in. You stop here and mind the bairns, pet.'

He turned to Swazzle and Pogmorton, 'Gizz a minute to get me kit sorted out lads and I'll meet you upstairs,' and with that, Botchett dived into the shadows under the stairs and began rummaging about.

* * *

When Botchett appeared at the top of the stairs, Swazzle and Pogmorton were just bidding farewell to Jamieson, the house spirit. Botchett staggered up the last couple of steps, straining under the weight of a huge leather backpack that rose a good foot above his head, and from which swung all manner of nefarious looking objects. Scurrying at his heels, on a lead fashioned from a piece of string, was what looked to Pogmorton very much like a large shrew, its long snout constantly wiggling as it scented the air. Botchett caught Pogmorton's gaze.

'Delilah,' he gestured towards the shrew, 'Best Worm hound in three counties.'

'Evenin' Master Jamieson,' Botchett tugged at his cap.

'Master Botchett,' nodded Jamieson, 'Jist keep yon shrew away frae me, ye ken wha' happened the last time?'

'Aye, aye I do,' said Botchett, tucking a white scarf down the inside of his tweed jacket, 'Sorry about that, bonny lad,' he mumbled before turning his attention to the waiting Pixies.

'Ready then?' Botchett asked and, when Swazzle and Pogmorton nodded he added, 'Well, howay lads, let's gan an' see about this Worm of yours,' and with that, he pulled open the front door and stepped out into the night.'